


Rubicon

by completetheory



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gender Identity, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Queer Friendly, Queer Themes, Trans Female Character, Trans Friendly, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: Even in the World of Darkness, there's always a little light. Sometimes it's a fluorescent tube whose flickering bulb needs replacing, and they don't sell that type anymore, but it's still better than nothing.Or, a perfectionist Ventrue confronts an imperfect world, from the battle of Waterloo onward.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Original Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).



Blood and smoke hung, miasmic, punctuated by the screams of dying men and horses. 

Just twenty four hours earlier, the young officer had slept in a ditch outside a building co-opted by senior generals of the Grande Armée. Then, victory had been uncertain, but the spirits of his corps were high. 

It was always easier to be brave in the face of the unknown. The reality was that Napoleon had already fled, and all around Sebastian were dead men walking. 

He squinted against the burning smoke of cannon shot, stepping over headless bodies and searching the distant fields for the Chasseurs, but there were few soldiers still horsed at all, and no sign of the Emperor's favorite children. The horrors of this battlefield were too numerous to be described in any detail, and had blended into an efficient blur of fear, desperation and - mercifully - spreading detachment. Sebastian had already executed two horses as they lay shrieking in the mud, finding it kinder than to let the poor beasts ebb their last, even as he sought some way to preserve his own skin. There were bodies everywhere, ironically in Plancenoit's graveyard, center of the French defense. Acting dead was not something Sebastian was prepared to risk doing. He had seen Prussians going among the fallen, stabbing them with bayonets, and locals ripping out their teeth to be sold as dentures. 

After the Russian campaign, Napoleon's faults as a human were all too clear to Sebastian. The Emperor didn't care for soldiers' lives, or for his generals' opinions, and he certainly was not present to surrender, and accept the consequences of this rout. Sebastian realized that his entire unit, French and foreign, were dead or deserted. Judging by the bloodied uniforms scattered around, mostly dead. Those who were not dead had retreated with due haste toward Maison du Roi, and left Sebastian and a few others too wounded to follow. Pain was a constant companion, he knew he'd been shot, but he didn't know what he could do about it and was too afraid, too _busy_ to stop and peel back his uniform to look at the wound. 

Even from within this chaos, Sebastian knew that Waterloo would not soon be forgotten, but there were more pressing concerns, as, suddenly, there were enemy soldiers approaching. Sebastian was hardly relieved to see they were British. He spoke but little English, and the British prison ships had a distressing reputation for non-officers - after last night, he was not at all certain he'd rank as a valuable prisoner. But what choice was there? 

Sebastian dropped his haversack and pistol, lifting his hands in surrender. The British officers exchanged a few words, then tied his hands with rope and helped him onto one of their horses, in front of a stern faced young man with gray eyes but a surprisingly gentle voice, who spoke a small amount of French. 

"It is good, you will be away from this," Said the Englishman, gesturing to the combat, or the death, or both, "What is your name?" 

"...Sebastian. I was with the Young Guard, under Duhesme. He was shot in the head." Sebastian wasn't sure what had happened, in the confusion, if Duhesme was dead, but it hadn't been good. He risked a look back toward the church, which was one great conflagration. The entire village was burning, soldiers fighting house to house in desperate combat. Even animals did not behave this way. Sebastian's stomach twisted, and he looked front again, at the soaked mane of the officer's horse. Wasteful. This was all so wasteful. 

There was so much blood. 

"I'm Liam Bray. With the 16th. We retreat, to let the Prussians in, I am called back." 

Sebastian focused on the words, not able to understand all of them, but recognizing enough to get the gist. Better to be a prisoner than to add his blood to that flooded field, to the tired churchyard. The numbness mingled with exhaustion and he closed his eyes, thankful that Liam would focus on this and the process of post-fighting paperwork was all he had to look forward to. Even imprisonment seemed favorable now, as the fear left his limbs too heavy to worry about the future overmuch. 

"I was shot as well." Sebastian said, reminded, absurdly having forgotten. It didn't hurt for the brief time he'd been captured, the adrenaline had drowned everything else, but now it was beginning to burn fire up his side again. 

"Have some drink; it's the best I can do." Said Liam, offering him brandy, and not knowing the word for doctor or surgeon, but, "Help comes soon." 

Liam urged the horse on, clearing the village entirely and only stopping once he'd reached some predetermined line, a non-nebulous area that Wellington held with enough security, at Mont-St-Jean Farm, the site of the 1st Corps hospital. Sebastian dismounted with difficulty, and was attended by surgeons, who dressed and cleaned his injuries. More blood. Everywhere was saturated with blood. Dozens, if not hundreds of soldiers suffering neck and head wounds, limb avulsions, and burns. The gag-inducing smell of burning flesh was almost too much for him, but he had no English good enough to request he be let out, and the nurses seemed to be prioritizing those who had the highest likelihood of survival, in any case. 

Unlike these soldiers, Sebastian was not injured enough to be completely out of it, and watched for a time as the nurses moved in and out between their patients, recognizing the uniforms chiefly of British soldiers, some Scottish, and some of the Netherlands. Few French appeared to have survived Plancenoit to be tended to. 

And for what? It was pure madness. 

He didn't sleep. It was very difficult to relax, and time passed both slowly and with an unusual tide, sweeping on with the frenetic activity all around him, seeing the soaked ground red and black and wet under the light of the blameless sun... until another British soldier roused him from a distant stupor and bid him follow. He did not see Liam's face, not knowing he was not to see the kind Englishman ever again, but took some comfort in knowing that it was unlikely that Liam had been sent out to fight any further. Napoleon had lost. 

It was no longer Sebastian's problem, either. He was shown to a carriage, taken to a small Belgian mansion in the countryside with an uncommonly helpful and gregarious driver, who explained that there was a very well-to-do, eccentric nobleman who was keen to accept prisoners of high enough rank that it would be _unsuitable_ to place them on galley ships, but not of such value that they could be traded for other prisoners. Sebastian's middling worth meant ... the unknown.

About which, he realized again, it was far easier to be courageous than the known. 

The juxtaposition between Sebastian's resolve and the sunny June morning was almost humorous to him. Ironic. Birds sang, the trees were beautiful and tall, and there was, at last, no omnipresent scent of blood, or fire. Not fifty miles away and yet it felt an entirely different world, this bright building with marbled entryway staircase and dark, gorgeously treated wooden paneling. The 'eccentric' Bruxellois that the driver had mentioned was not in evidence, but he was met by a wan servant girl who spoke mercifully excellent French, and even some German, with which Sebastian was also very comfortable. 

In a perverse way, Sebastian might have preferred if there was no hope here, if it was obvious this was the end of the line. Hope at this stage for something good was tinged with the poisonous fear that it was only a precursor to something terrible waiting to make itself known, as his conversation with the girl, Julia, continued promisingly. 

This was the house of the _de la Croix d'Olmen_ family, who had lived there for hundreds of years, and whose family crest was a rampant stag with a crown around its neck, chains attached to the crown as if it were a leash, and shot all through the body with arrows. It was a particularly gruesome piece, even for emblemata of the time, and Sebastian's attention returned to it several times over the course of the short discussion.

"And this Baron d'Olmen is not yet awake?" Sebastian observed without censure that the clock standing in the hall said 10:20, long past the time when even the laziest noble might rouse himself. 

"I am sure you will meet d'Olmen soon." 

Julia had a very peculiar way of deflecting questions, but the answers she did give felt bizarre. "I am the only servant of this House" was one response that stuck with Sebastian as he wandered the building to get familiar with it, noting the stores of firewood and the made beds. 

The only servant? Who received guests, who chopped firewood, who saddled and tended any horses that were in the stable nearby? All done by her? No wonder the fireplaces were cobwebbed and the beds in the unoccupied rooms dusty. It was a lot for one person, and yet the paintings on the walls, ornamentation, furniture and soft furnishings did not speak to an owner experiencing hard financial times. The unnaturally thin woman must also have had the strength of a horse in order to chop all the wood and do the bedrooms, the kitchen - the work of an energetic staff of five, at least.

Sebastian stopped by a cabinet containing many books on philosophy, the burgeoning field of psychology, and history, particularly Greek and Roman classics, and stared at his reflection in it. He was as dirty and pale as the servant woman, and there was a hollow expression that even he, distantly, did not like. Everyone he'd been speaking with, sitting amongst, discussing and commanding only a day ago was now dead. The field of blood came back to him as he read the title of Julius Caesar's Campaigns again and again without understanding it. The terrible frenzied sacrifice of human lives to the god of territory and patriotism, would it sleep now, for a century or so - was its thirst slaked by human love of carnage and glory? 

And which was worse? That history was fated to be thus, or that it could be different, and all was wasted potential? 

He jerked fearfully out of his thoughts as a door down the hall closed, but it was only Julia. The time wore on for noon and still the host made no appearance, and Julia brought Sebastian refreshments and steadfastly refused to account for her master's whereabouts, but in a polite and circular way. 

"I don't mean to be an ungrateful guest." Sebastian hazarded, the twisting anticipation in his guts worse than ever before, worse than his still healing bullet wounds, "But I must ask if you have any inkling of why I'm here, what purpose I'm to fill." 

Julia did not. She begged forgiveness for her host's tardiness, and showed Sebastian to a room that he might use, drew up a bath for him, and provided him with fresh clothes. All the while his mind ticked away uselessly and his heart grew more and more anxious, an ouroboros of discomfort that fed on itself and grew tighter and tighter. There were any number of reasons or ways this could go badly, and the narrow escape he had from death had left a strong impression of discomfort about things outside of his control. 

By three PM, he was contemplating stealing a horse and riding it to the border, but this only in a detached way. He read one of the classics, or tried to. The words just beat against the space between his eyes and brain without comprehension. Even being clean and fed was not particularly comforting. He threw the book and lay back on the couch, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the field of blood, and it made his limbs weak and his heart burn with impotent fury. War was not meant to be glorious, but neither should it be flippant, and wasteful, and motivated by the pettiest of beliefs; that life was, by and large, expendable. 

It was almost ten when the sun went down, in late June the days stretched to an indeterminable length of time in this part of Europe. Sebastian was staring at the fire in the reception room, ignoring the umpteenth cup of tea placed beside him, when the door opened at last. Sebastian made a number of automatic assumptions about the entrant; male, about fifty, a friendly face, albeit pale and drawn, perhaps ill. 

"Baron d'Olmen." Sebastian stood, knowing it was not his place to demand an explanation, but desiring one all the same. What games would this noble think were appropriate to play with his life, plucked like a drowning animal from a well, to be adopted? To be destroyed? 

"Good morning," Said the Baron, "And it is Baroness, in my home. Your patience is appreciated. I have been asleep." 

_Asleep? All day?_

"I see." Sebastian said, wound tight enough to snap but retaining the air of good breeding given to him despite the taxing events of the last few months - and particularly the last few hours. "Then, good morning, Baroness. I'm - afraid I don't understand." Anything, but let d'Olmen take that question in the spirit of discontentment in which it was offered. 

"That I am a woman, or that my resting schedule is peculiar?" The Baroness d'Olmen decided to answer both, "If you are familiar with the Chevalier d'Éon, you may understand a little of how European society has to advance before it can be called civilized. As for my sleep... that is a medical condition, of sorts. The sunlight does not agree with me." 

Sebastian was not familiar, but was oddly excited, compelled internally to investigate this new and wondrous idea, that one who would at a glance appear to be of one gender may simply _inform_ that they were of another. It held all the delicious interest to him of a key fitting the lock to a door that had before always gone unremarked-upon as unopenable. 

"I don't mean to suggest you are accountable to me." Sebastian recovered with as much grace as possible, "But I am here at your request. And I would be grateful to you to know what is to become of me."

The Baroness evaluated Sebastian, folding her arms behind herself. "You will be evaluated as to your suitability in my organization. If you are found wanting, I will pay your fare to go home to your family, and you shall from there have your life to live again as your own. I shall not see you again." 

This felt unusually final. Sebastian mulled over the benefits of returning home, alive but in comparative disgrace. He didn't particularly like the idea. "And if I am desirable, Baroness d'Olmen?" 

"You will be welcomed as one of us. And you may call me Lynn, dear. Now, let's see about food." 

Sebastian was offered a rich spread of mostly less-perishable foods, and Lynn moved about the room but did not partake, which he found even more curious. She had, by her own admission, woken not long ago, and she was seemingly interested only in setting the room to order. He watched her without trying to be rude, and then asked, "About - your being a woman." 

"Yes." Lynn looked over, and he could see in her eyes that this was already one of the tests. 

He didn't change what he had already planned to say, however, "When did you know that you were?" 

Lynn's smile was a fleeting thing, but no less genuine for its quick retreat. "I was very young. It took some time to understand, but I did not feel at ease with myself, not for a _very_ goodly sum of years." 

Sebastian considered it, but his angle was obvious. "Perhaps my age?" 

"If you should like me to refer to you with different pronouns, or a different name, Sebastian, I would be only too happy." 

The offer startled him, despite his transparency. He blinked, looking for a moment the true sum of his years, rather than the sum of his dread experience. "You - mean, as a woman? She?"

"Or something else. There are neutral options. I have several friends in my organization that answer to a variety of definitions. We are not bound by conventional society."

Again, this mysterious _organization_ threatened Sebastian's full attention away from the exciting prospect of self exploration. He didn't ask immediately, though. "Then... I'd like to try "she". If it feels wrong, you'll go back to he, I hope."

"Yes, at once." 

But that wasn't why the young officer was here. She - it was cautious, careful, to think of herself that way, but it did not give way to some terrible feeling, or any sense of wrongness. Urgent, or otherwise. She kept her eyes on Lynn to better divine a subtle expression, "What does the organization look for?" 

Lynn didn't hide the delight this time, clapping her hands and approaching with the quick birdlike steps, "A quick mind. A controlled heart. A devoted soul. We believe in the best possible potential of our kind, and we look to find others as dedicated as we. In all things we are polite and well bred. We have existed since ancient Roman times, to the era of the Knights Templars, to now, and all across Europe. There are even new branches spreading to the Americas." 

Sebastian ran through the possibilities, and applied them to herself. She had been praised in the academy for her easy grasp of concepts, she found that she was able to keep a cool head in a crisis, but she was also passionate. More than once she had stood up to the people around her and regretted the isolation that came from so doing. Was it principled? She simply knew better than them, and that had been the crux of the argument. 

"I have found little in my life to devote my soul to." She admitted, "And I cannot say with truth that my heart is 'controlled'. What about honesty, how important is that?" 

Lynn actually laughed. "We are honest with each other. It's hard to go into too much detail without initiating you, but you will find deception the better part of valor in some cases, and straightforward talk with your allies the best choice in others." 

This sounded to Sebastian like a very queer business. And not the good kind of queer. "'Allies'? _Deception?_ With all this talk, it appears you're at war." 

"Oh yes." That was grave. "All would be explained to you before your final agreement."


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian was beginning to see where the Bruxellois got her reputation for eccentricity. And it had nothing to do with her unconventional social ideas on gender, after all. A secret, conspiratorial war? And where were all its participants? Baroness Lynn appeared alone here, save for her single servant. The coach driver had suggested she was not the only one who had arrived in Lynn's home to be judged. Perhaps the others had been found wanting, or perhaps there was more to this situation. 

She warmed to the topic, leaning her elbows on the table, despite the talk of politeness, and good breeding. She had no fear at this point of being judged wanting by Lynn in _that_ regard, and as with any interview, she was aware that she was also free to judge whether she wanted anything to do with this - secret society, initiation, or whatever it was.

"What is your goal? What do you 'devote your soul' to? What is this potential, specifically? Financial success?"

Lynn folded her arms behind herself. "We have all the money we could ever need for any purpose. Our goal is to thrive and to ensure that the human race furthers our thriving, rather than hindering it." 

Sebastian's mouth opened, then closed, truly puzzled, the more questions she asked. "You don't want for money?" She repeated, trying not to make it sound like a judgment of her current surroundings, or of Lynn's single servant.

Instead of answering, Lynn returned, "What would you do, if you had unlimited money?" 

"Well, I'd." She hadn't really ever entertained the notion. "I would help people with it, I suppose." 

"How?" 

She watched her sponsor, much like a cat herself, trying to intuit a baseline desire and work from there. Lynn's face was suddenly very hard to read. "I don't know. I've never thought about it." 

"But you wouldn't live in spoiled luxury, obviously, so why do you see my manse as proof against my infinite wealth?"

Sebastian decided it was best to be honest. "I have a natural cynicism that wars with my desire to think well of people."

Lynn laughed, huskily. "Fair enough. Consider this no interview, but rather, a sharing of ideas." She sat backward in one of the chairs, gesturing to Sebastian as the latter finished her food. "What is your opinion on vampires?" 

"I must disappoint my gracious host. I don't have an opinion on vampires." 

"That hardly disappoints me. I'm pleased that you were so willing to accept the possibility of mutable gender, and I understand why you may be skeptical about this organization, knowing so little... but in some ways I find a blank slate, rather than a set of preconceived notions, a relief."

Sebastian was struggling to maintain ....poise, and decorum, in the face of many unusual and challenging new concepts, but remarkably felt unthreatened by all of them. At worst, Lynn seemed as she had been described; a gentle old eccentric. At best, perhaps she was merely very deeply involved with a secret society that had some ...peculiar belief system. The Knights Templar, she'd name-dropped. Hadn't they worshiped a severed head, or a goat woman, or a skull? Something. 

"Please, tell me what I ought to know." She invited, softly.

"Mostly, that there are such things. And that they are not all necessarily wicked; as humans are not all necessarily wicked. Like all creatures, they seek to survive, and to make more of themselves. It is the primal drive common to all beings on Earth. They are, if I speak fully openly with you, far more vulnerable than their human cousins." 

"I see." Sebastian took on a kindly, almost parental tone, "And you are charged with protecting them from human beings."

While Lynn neither confirmed, nor denied, Sebastian thought of the fields of blood, and continued, "I can well believe it is necessary. Would that we had a society devoted to protect us from ourselves, as well." 

Lynn reached across to put a hand onto Sebastian's hand. It was cold, but more than that, it was a sudden supportive squeeze. "There are good humans. I believe this. I know you've been through a dreadful experience. That's why I'd like to take this slowly." 

"I - appreciate," Sebastian floundered, lost suddenly in the depth of that emotion, trying to reel herself back. "But don't slow yourself on my account alone." 

Lynn let go the hand, seeming to find that gesture as extreme and important as Sebastian did. She shook her head. "This is much to absorb of one evening, and I think we both have enough to think about. I'll see you again tomorrow." 

Sebastian hesitated. "Will you forgive an impertinent question?"

"More than likely." 

"Do you have any evidence that vampires exist? Something you can demonstrate?" 

The Baroness straightened up in surprise. "I hardly expected you to take me on faith alone. If you are acceptable, then I will certainly prove it to you. If you fail... you forfeit the memories of your nights in this house." 

"...Forfeit..." Sebastian repeated, a little helplessly, "Through - mesmerism?"

"Something like that. Try not to worry too much. I already think you're ...quite suitable, I simply don't rush things." 

Sebastian headed up to her room with lit candle, appreciating Julia's presence on the stairs. She looked in better health, marginally. There was more color in her cheeks tonight. 

Despite the loose ends, general uncertainty, and bizarre discussions, Sebastian was well fed and felt more physically safe in the manse than she had in a long while. She slept the clock round from midnight to noon, and woke the next day with the instant awareness that she would not speak to the compelling Bruxellois Baroness again until late in the evening. 

The young officer was literate, not a rare gem in this era, but the extraordinary collection of books in the Baroness' library didn't much interest her. They were classics of the sort that one kept to impress others, and consequently many were barely handled, almost new. There was one tattered copy of Paradise Lost that hinted at a much loved relationship with its reader, but from the date inside it was too old to have been owned by Lynn originally.

It had also been extensively written in, with several speeches by Satan indicated, underlined, and expounded upon in an excited mix of English and Latin notes. 

She set the book carefully back where she'd found it and exited into the bright sunshine. There was a paddock not far from the building where two horses - strong, magnificent Belgian draft mares - lingered near the fence. They were a sight, huge, glossy and obviously well fed, but covered in burrs, and with shaggy, unkempt manes. Even from a distance, but especially up close, they looked like the descendants of destriers - the mighty war horses of the medieval era.

It was the work of half an hour for Sebastian to first befriend them, with treats brought from the kitchen, and then another hour to work out most of the worst tangles. Like everything else in the Baroness' house, these two horses were not yet neglected enough to be beyond saving, but were showing obvious signs of a household stretched thin and quietly disinterested with the business of day to day living. 

Not for the first time, Sebastian wondered if Lynn were simply a woman in the slow process of a mental breakdown, or severe depression. Perhaps all this talk of vampires and secret societies was a coping mechanism for a lonely existence, perhaps she had difficulty keeping servants and couldn't reconcile the faded glory of her home. 

She encouragingly stroked the flank of the horse nearest her, having earned their superficial trust in a remarkably short space of time by simply listening to their body language and averting upsetting contact. They did both seem well socialized, and one even pushed her head forward to lay it on Sebastian's shoulder. 

She allowed it, running her fingers through the thick mane, and heard the bay of a far off hunting dog, feeling the horse tense slightly and murmuring, "No, no, you are safe. You are safe here." 

The horse relaxed again within a few more moments, coaxed down by her immediate reassurance. "There. You know your place. Let me lead, and I will protect you. There's no need to fear." 

Not far from the house came the sound of chopping wood, and she swung wide the gate of the paddock at last, putting reins on the second horse to lead them both. It might have been careless to take such a risk with someone else's property, but she was reasonably sure of her own equestrian skill. Sure enough, it was Julia at the block, bringing an ax down in slow, methodical swings against the wood in threes to stack it best against the house.

"Julia." Sebastian called, "I hope it is acceptable to borrow your mistress' horses. They seemed ... in want of exercise." 

Julia looked up, much less like a frightened rabbit even now, and Sebastian suspected it was partially because Lynn had informed her servant of Sebastian's calm attitude toward her gender, and perhaps even to the talk of undead conspiracy. If Julia was in on it. 

"No, mam, you may take the horses. The Baroness left clear instruction while she's asleep that you're not to be curtailed in any liberties or kept from what you wish, an' it be moral and discreet." 

Sebastian considered this. Obviously _moral and discreet_ was vague, but not intentionally so, she suspected. "What does the good Baroness consider immoral?" 

"Murder and such, I suppose." Julia said, almost slyly, as if she _did_ know a secret. The little minx had hidden depths, and her casual, loose way of speaking about it almost seemed like an invitation to inquire more... But perhaps not rudely. 

"Would you like to ride with me?" 

Julia's eyes widened, taken off guard. "Err..." She looked to the wood. 

"I'd help you to catch up on chores afterward." Sebastian offered, easily, "The work always goes faster with two." 

"Then yes, I would." Julia decided, letting Sebastian boost her up onto the other horse, "You ride Anemone like yuh've always known her." 

"I'm sure if I lose my concentration you won't say that." Sebastian nudged the horse back out, toward the treeline, at a slow and easy pace. All this felt unreal in some ways, like it was potentially dangerous to let down her guard so much in this public place. Like enemies could be in the trees. But they weren't, and the feeling, while uncomfortable, did not inhibit her completely. "What's the other one's name?"

"Tulip. My lady loves flowers. Even if - ...she doesn't get to be with them in the sunlight, anymore." Julia also looked to be a competent horse-rider, which gratified Sebastian. Nor did she push right away for resolution on the matter of vampirism. 

There were multiple reasons she'd invited Julia out. The sun and fresh air would do her good, if she'd spent so much time indoors with her mistress, no wonder she looked pale. And it really was too great a household for one employee. They rode for a time in companionable silence, the wan assistant smiling every so often, at some errant thought, birdsong or sunshine. When they reached the open fields, they let the horses have their heads, and raced them through the green and gold of the radiant afternoon. 

Sebastian thought of red, of fetlocks matted in gore and frantic white rolling eyes. Of the two horses she had killed of pity, and their terrible thrashing and somehow more terrible, pitiable stillness. It was blasphemous, almost, to 'let' such thoughts of dead animals intrude on these warm living ones, but it was an effort too supreme for her to draw away and return to reality until Julia drew alongside and touched her arm, startling her. 

"You were thinkin' of unpleasant things." Julia guessed, and not reproachfully, "Was it the war? Was that so very bad?" 

She swallowed. "I was... contemplating mortality." 

"Oh." Despite her rough vernacular, Julia readily gravitated toward the subject, "Do you do that a lot?" 

"Lately. I apologize." 

"Don't worry, mam. You don't need to. If my mistress has the right of it, you can be a vampire soon enough." 

Sebastian took the opening, but carefully. Such things had to be dealt with gentle, that seemed shared delusions. "Why do you say that?" 

Julia drew her horse back along the path, a slow walk as she looked up toward the sun, appreciating the warmth of the day that her mistress - could apparently never indulge in again. "She likes you. I can tell. If you don't believe in it, I understand, but it's true. I've seen and known about them for a hundred years. I was born in Stoke-on-Trent back then... I've seen things most people can't even dream." 

The strange, sad woman seemed lit up from within, a pleasant fire in her as she spoke of what she'd seen. "There are beings who live so secret because the very look of em is like unto demons from hell. I met one. He's the Prince of Brussels, only you wouldn't know it because he keeps himself discreet and all. A right kind one, as most of em deformed are nicer than them shaped like fairy tale queens."

Sebastian was unsure how to answer that, "Demons - you mean, with hooves?" 

"Not for him." Julia looked back at her, "It depends on the one, I hear their blood changes em. The Mistress is a different kind. And each can only bring forth one'a their own kind, you see? So if you was bitten and changed by the Prince, then you'd become like him in some ways. While if you was bitten by my Mistress, you become like her type."

There didn't seem any way to politely contest Julia's reality, but Sebastian tried, "How can you be a hundred years old, Julia?" 

"It's the blood of my mistress." Julia said, as if it was the most simple thing in the world, "It stops me getting old an' weak. I'm her ghoul." 

Sebastian felt a sudden wellspring of pity for the young lady and her mistress both, who seemed to have entered into a shared delusion about monsters, and one that was intensely complicated. She turned Anemone around. "We've been out long enough. Come, I'll help you with your chores." 

Julia followed, her horse a little slower but eager to try keeping up, "You don't believe me one bit." 

"I believe that you believe it, Julia." She could be honest about that, "But I do think the isolation has done you both a disservice."

"You'll see, tomorrow night." Julia rallied, "My Mistress runs Elysium, it's a place where vampires can meet without violence. The ones who do magic, make wards, an' the wards make it so no one can fight. So they can talk if they don't agree, and such." 

"I'm - sure they're very passionate people." Sebastian fielded the answer, thinking it would be simple enough to disprove. If no one came - or if they were just business associates... but Julia's mistress also believed this. Was it folie simultanée? Who was the architect? 

In some ways, it was a non-bizarre delusion. It wasn't, from what she had said, implausible in the sense that she was claiming things that **were** immediately disprovable. The 'Prince of Brussels' was a monster, ergo he hid away from society, and no one saw him, therefore they were none the wiser to monsters in their society. Her mistress could not go out in the daytime, and gave her blood that preserved her youth (In a curious inversion of what would come to be acceptable for vampire lore!), and she doubtless had convinced herself she remembered being born a hundred years ago, likely in similar circumstances to how she lived now. These things made internal sense, or were rationalized with a series of logical steps. 

If nothing else, it didn't seem a dangerous belief, at present. "I rather like the idea," She added, into the silence, "Of a group of people who are magically induced to get along." 

Julia didn't respond, but she didn't sulk or look angry - just concerned. She continued to maintain this demeanor as Sebastian helped with the chores around the house, but after a short time, she responded to Sebastian's attempts to pave over the awkwardness by answering more questions about the 'Elysium meeting'.

"Them that come to the meeting would be mostly vampires like my mistress, I reckon. Them that stretch back to the empire of the Romans, and believe in - how's it... _fidelitas._ Taking good care of each other. But the Prince might come too. If you want to become like em, mind that you respect him. For a vampire to be made, there's three permissions to be got, and his is one."

"Lynn herself, is the second." Sebastian was not eager to insult her again by suggesting the Prince was fictional, "And the third?"

"You, mam. There won't be none of it without your say so. My Mistress' people call it ' _pace tua'_. To make a vampire without _pace tua_ is a crime to them. It has been so for hundreds of years."

"So many rules." Sebastian observed, with a sudden keen interest. Even if she had thought Julia was mad, this sharpened the blade of her desire - the chance to comprehend a regimented structure, something with internal logic, albeit alien to her. It was a worthy distraction from her real world ills. 

It was also curious that there was so much detail to Julia's fantasy, so many little things. From her information, Sebastian parsed that there were many 'clans' and they had differing desires and typically different abilities, though the majority of them 'looked human' and could freely integrate, at night, with their human brethren. Their unifying trait was their original Embrace and subsequent 'first death', and their ageless body thereafter. 

She was no scholar in their mutual madness, but she had much more confidence when the Baroness woke.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good morning, Baroness. Julia has been telling me a great deal about the culture of - your people." Sebastian broached, not wanting to explicitly say 'vampires'. 

"I'm glad." Lynn took a seat, deciding in the middle of her thought not to ask a question, giving an inviting look, in lieu.

"She says you must have my permission if you decide to --make me one of you." Sebastian hoped this was not implying anything about her own doubts.

"I should very much like for you to wish to have the Embrace." Lynn said softly, "But if you decline, you will be sworn only to secrecy." 

Sebastian sat a little straighter, attentive to the possibility of catching out discrepancy. "You said you'd erase my memories." 

"I think I can trust you with something a little less invasive, now that I know you better."

Sebastian felt much more at ease about her host's malleability than only moments ago, and relaxed into the chair again, but her expression remained alert, like a bird of prey, naturally interested and perpetually hungry. 

"Tell me what you think is pertinent." 

"All right. As Julia has likely already told you, tomorrow night, I will host several vampires, providing politically neutral ground for a delicate situation. The Clan Toreador have an ongoing boundary dispute with the Tremere. The Tremere refuse to give way, and the Toreador are dangerously close to inciting a secondary, mutual war underneath that of the Napoleonic." 

"I see." Undaunted, Sebastian forged ahead, "Has this territory only recently come into dispute, or is it a long contested matter? And what does the Prince wish to see as a resolution - does he favor either of these 'clans'?" 

Lynn blinked at her. "The land in question has formerly been neutral, but our people, regardless of clan, are naturally territorial to varying degrees."

"As are we." Sebastian said, gravely, "Go on, please. Don't fear to lose me in the weeds of terminology."

Her host smiled. "In that case, the Prince is a Nosferatu. He cares very little for both clans unbalancing the order and would prefer a quick, mutual compromise, but he is realistic enough to know if such things are forced they will be feigned. The extension of my Elysium to these clan leaders, and to various diplomats - is an early attempt to stop things from escalating, without putting undue pressure on either clan. Ideally."

"I see." Sebastian was confident that she _did_ see, and could only comprehend more in time. The act of forcing people to truce was little different from forcing children to apologize - they learned only insincerity and shame. "Who is attending this meeting? Do you know them?"

"Doubtless at least one Ventrue, and one of the Toreador and the Tremere. The Prince himself may not attend. He is very busy with affairs of state." 

"Ah." Sebastian supposed that the 'Prince', being monstrous, would need his absence justified away. Vampires who looked like her were easier to explain.

And then Lynn smiled, and her canines were too-long, and Sebastian squinted at them in the candlelight of the room. 

"I will give you proof before you meet any of them." Lynn said, and spoke in such a way that - yes, she did have long almost-fangs. "Come here." 

She wanted very little more than to stay on the other side of the room, and hesitated. 

"I won't hurt you. But you see I won't command you either." Lynn was soft, and inviting, "I promise. I just want to give you means to scientifically verify that I am what I say I am, before you meet the others." 

Sebastian stood, and moved closer, trying to slow the hammering of her heart. The elder woman took her hand, and her fingers were cold, but that was nothing compared to the way her fingertips felt pressed to Lynn's wrist. She had no pulse. 

Sebastian remained incredulous. "It must be weak."

Lynn invitingly tipped her chin, baring her throat. "Feel here." 

When Sebastian touched her throat, she twitched slightly, impulsively seeming to dislike it, but as before, Sebastian could find no pulse, however thready. 

"I don't understand." She feared that she did. That everything she had been told was true. "You really are undead?" 

"Of course. I was Embraced in the late 1300s. I've been undead for much longer than I was alive."

Sebastian backed toward her chair and sat again. 'It's amazing. It's-... incredible." 

"The reality of my condition isn't frightening, I hope. If it disturbs you, I grant you leave to remain in your room during the meeting." 

"Oh, no, I would love to meet - ...I feel terrible, I treated the girl as if she was mad." Sebastian admitted, "I thought you were mad, as well." 

Lynn smiled, "Yes, well. I expected you to. On all other topics, you performed well above my expectations. I think highly of you, even as early as this. But I'm not going to hurry you. You won't be given the Embrace at all, if you don't desire it, and certainly it will take some time before I seek the Prince's approval."

"Is he truly a monster? Like the others from the 'devil clan'?" Sebastian was no longer able to comfort herself with the unlikely nature of Julia's information. 

"Prince Vermeulen is... very unusual in appearance. But just as a soldier's battle scars, or a child's birth disfigurement, are no proof of anything further than the thing itself, the Nosferatu are no less sentient, or gentle, than the rest of us. The most difficult and the most important thing when speaking of our clans - Ventrue, Nosferatu, whichever it may be. An individual can always break from the expected cultural norm. Treat them as guides only. They can be good, reliable guides, but unless you are prepared to accept deviation, assumptions will do you harm in the long run."

Sebastian considered it, finding it sensible. It was the same, she supposed, with people of various nations, who might be of a shared culture with individual traits, or who might vary wildly from what was expected. 

"So these Nosferatu, they are the main reason vampire-kind remain hidden from humanity." She suggested.

"Surely the Nosferatu of the Camarilla are advocates of secrecy." Lynn returned, deliberately specific, "But you don't remember the Counter-Reformation period, and the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition... The centuries of naked intolerance. It was long before your time, but there was a period of European history where humankind persecuted itself, and us, to the tune of sixty thousand deaths." 

Lynn paused, then elaborated, "Almost all were humans. Older women, those of Jewish faith, the Saracen, and the easily preyed upon, vagrants and mentally unwell. While few Kindred in these nights were actually correctly identified - as their targets were 'witches' and ethno-religious minorities - the hunters that are a peril to us used that real hatred and destructive greed to advance their own agenda, just as we Kindred use the humans' activities as means to advance ours."

"So, humanity's bigotry convinced you it was better to remain covert." Sebastian took a drink. 

"Yes. More than that, however, it finally pushed us into forming, and accepting the Camarilla - an alliance between clans that codifies what we can and cannot reveal, and to whom. Rafael de Corazon, a Toreador, swayed the Kindred leaders of that time against revealing ourselves, and likely saved both our species from civil war." 

Sebastian laughed, almost to herself, but then shared, "The universal love of humanity is something I very much wish I could believe in, and now it seems like Kindred have surpassed us in mercy." 

"The destruction that would have followed, even then, would have likely driven kine and Kindred alike to extinction." Lynn murmured, "Pragmatism, as well as compassion, bade de Corazon to urge us to turn aside. --I have known him a long time. He's very gentle. The world - the church, in particular - ill used him, when he was human, and he's had a long time now to heal from what was done to him." 

The older woman didn't seem to think it was her place to say anything further, and changed tacks, "Above all, I think most of us are tired of endless conflict - politics are different to treachery, but lately we have seen little else." 

Sebastian wanted more detail, but she'd been up all day and the evening's work had taken a lot out of her. She found herself yawning, and the Baroness d'Olmen sent her off to bed with only personal apologies for her 'nocturnal habits'. There was implicit a promise that she could meet these other vampires; Sebastian hoped so, at least. 

She found sleep difficult, turning and fidgeting and prey to her thoughts throughout the early hours of the morning, and finally drifted off, uneasily, only to wake again in the neighborhood of late afternoon, with still a ways to go before the 'guests' arrived. Sebastian expected to find Julia hard at work, but instead found the reception room full of people she didn't recognize. They looked fairly well to do, and they sat or stood, milling as if waiting for the same thing Sebastian waited for, playing cards or discussing the weather. It was very surreal.

No one paid much attention to her, so she could move about and eavesdrop at will, but there was nothing to hear. Everyone was excited for the party, the minutae of dress was discussed, and the eagerness for nightfall. She did track Julia down to the kitchen, though.

"Who are all those people?" She indicated behind herself, "Are they ghouls?" 

Julia smiled, knowingly, "They ain't, mam. They're kine and all. But what some rude vampires call 'blood dolls'. Humans what love vampires enough to be fed from regular. A ghoul may let it happen besides, but the sharin' of blood is what makes the difference. These folk will be good for the visitors, though. You don't think Ventrue could drink horse blood, do you?" 

"I - don't know." Sebastian replied, insufficiently. "What do non-rude vampires call them?" 

"...People, I s'pose." She lifted a heavy box onto the counter, "While you're here, help me get the good glassware out. Most of em won't use it, but it looks nice." 

Julia had appealed successfully to Sebastian's love of the aesthetic, and she did help with a handful of tableware, mistaken almost gladly for a servant by the 'kine' in the reception room. As afternoon yielded to evening, carriages arrived outside. Sebastian heard a strong voice and caught the tail end of "--Zoniënwoud," which she recognized as the Dutch phrase for the nearby forest of Soignes, the place which the Duke of Wellington had his back toward during the rout that had been Waterloo. 

A different voice answered, but not in Dutch. The two speakers were multilingual, and seemed to be going back and forth in German, Dutch, and smatterings of French with which she was most familiar. She let herself into the front hall, as the kine seemed content to wait in the reception room, and encountered at once a small, blonde haired individual who was almost comedically unthreatening in appearance, and a much taller one who had hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark glasses, peculiar for the time. 

She looked down at Sebastian with naked interest, while her companion was the first to offer a greeting, in conversational French. 

"Hello. I'm Jan Pieterzoon, Childe of Hardestadt the Elder, and Lictor from Laon to Antwerp. Are you one of Lynn's guests?" 

The self-named Jan used the familiar form of _you_ , but Sebastian could tell from their accent that they were only a secondary speaker of the language, and didn't know what to infer from it. She was equally unsure if she was to perform _la bise_ at all with a vampire as a greeting, or whether the revolutionary custom of fraternity and fellowship would be somewhat lost. As she idled, Jan offered out a hand and she took it, gratefully. 

"Sebastian LaChance," She managed, also in French, "I am staying with Lynn. I was at the battle." 

Jan's expression made a microshift toward sympathy. Not so much calculated as tightly controlled, "Terrible. I'm sorry for your losses, Mx. LaChance." 

"Mx?" Sebastian repeated, uncertainly.

The taller of the two, who had thus far been quiet and patient, offered, "Mixter. It is an invitation to answer for your own gender. The Tzimisce invented it." 

"Of course they did," Sebastian repeated, a little lightheaded with the possibility. 'The Tzimisce' had not come up in the brief evening's discussion, and Lynn still had not appeared tonight to be asked, so she forged ahead, "Ms., then. If you please." 

"Ms. LaChance." Jan repeated softly. "This is Anneke. She is the Toreador Justicar for this region. We're experimenting with ...multiple Justicar roles in these uncertain nights."

"My pleasure." Anneke maneuvered around them both in a way that suggested she was keen to get to the night's main event, and Jan smiled after her as she exited, then looked to Sebastian. 

"You must forgive her, she's very highly strung over this territorial business." 

Sebastian nodded at once, keen to indicate something she understood. "The Toreador and the Tremere. Are the Tremere also sending a Justicar?" 

Jan looked mildly impressed, but Sebastian was already getting the sense that everything the Dutch Ventrue expressed was mild, regardless of external factors. "I think not. This matter is slightly below the paygrade of a Justicar of any clan, and I believe the Toreador show a great deal of enthusiasm by sending theirs. Meanwhile, I am here on Lynn's request, she sent a missive to the Strategoi to lend an agent - you would call my role in this affair one of neutral diplomacy. The Ventrue have no current territorial interest, we are quite happy with Prince Vermeulen's management of this area."

Though Jan's French was heavily accented, their word choice was deliberate, and not in a poetic sense. Sebastian understood from Jan's slight smile and stress that _enthusiasm_ , for example, was a word chosen precisely for its lack of judgmental quality. 

"Indeed." She anchored to all that information, "Thank you for your patience with me--Mx. Pieterzoon." 

"Not at all." Jan continued to engage warmly, and if anything warmer when Sebastian reciprocated the neutrois gender identification, "Just bringing you up to date." 

Sebastian followed Jan, hopefully not as a puppy would, as the Lictor let themself into the adjoining room - not the one with all the guests, but the library, which was quiet, and save for Anneke, unoccupied. She gave it a moment, and when Jan seemed disinclined to pick up the thread of conversation dropped with Anneke previously, asked, "Is Prince Vermeulen likely to come?" 

"It is possible." Jan took a seat. "In some ways he is a very active Prince. It depends whether he believes his being here would escalate the situation or not. He may think it better to let the two clans discuss amongst themselves without a stern parent presiding." 

Sebastian hated to keep asking questions, particularly when it revealed her lack of knowledge, but Jan was so companionable in subtle ways - they turned themself to face her, they kept their eyes on hers, and they were so free and easy with their thoughts - that it was massively tempting to keep interrogating them. 

"Have you met many Tzimisce?" She asked next, and Anneke let out a quiet sound that was suspiciously like an abbreviated laugh, once which hastened her to add, "I'm sorry - if that is improper, I mean no offense." 

Jan's expression remained sanguine, "I have - our dear Justicar companion finds it amusing to think on your asking that of a more ...traditional representative of the Strategoi, I'm sure. But I have never allowed tradition to get in the way of efficiency, and it is efficient, indeed, to speak with Tzimisce and to know them on an intimate level. Of all the clans, save perhaps the Nosferatu, the Tzimisce are the most like us." 

Despite not being Kindred, Sebastian felt that Jan was including her in that _us_ , and didn't feel further shame or reserve in asking, "Why do you say that?" 

"They have honor. Reserve. Emotional control, but not to the point that they grow oblivious to their desires. The Tzimisce culture demands they treat guests in certain ways, and like us, they are swift to provide neutral ground to discuss grievances." 

Sebastian meditated. "Then why is it traditional to avoid the Tzimisce?" 

Anneke answered before Jan could, "They are the spearhead clan of the Sabbat. Sworn enemies of the Camarilla. There is little common ground politically to be found with them, and Kindred are the masters of old grudges, regardless of clan. Such a schism dates back to the Counter-Reformation." 

That term, Sebastian was familiar with, as the cause of the Camarilla's formation, but she didn't get a chance to ask another question. 

"I don't agree that there's little common ground." Jan was careful, though, and Sebastian could sense that their opinions were an iceberg tip, carefully cultivated for presentability in strange company. "I think that the Camarilla's main failing is an inflexibility. Once we have decided upon something, we will hold to it even when new evidence disproves old dogma." 

Anneke squinted at them as if unsure what to make of this information, but Sebastian sensed no hostility. "Such as?" 

"I shouldn't like to be indiscreet." Jan murmured, apologetically, "But speaking generally, I try to independently challenge every point that sits ill with me, rather than content myself with the whole." 

Sebastian fell to listening, raptly, almost entranced by the interplay here, what was said and what was unsaid, only guessed at. 

"The Sabbat are convinced of an impending apocalypse. And have been so since they were formed, centuries ago. They are a doomsday cult with a clock that resets itself into the near future with every disproven prophecy." Anneke still lacked hostility, despite total disagreement, "It isn't the Camarilla's policies that discourage their cooperation." 

Jan paused, then opened one hand imploringly, "I know that if someone mocked your beliefs, you would be hesitant to trust them. The Camarilla's wholesale denial of Gehenna is a great stumbling block in our relations - even greater than the acceptance of the Tremere into our fold, and our protection, after--well. I really shouldn't like to bring this all up. None of it is particularly relevant. Can we agree that both sects can be imprudent, at times?" 

"Yes." Anneke went back to looking out the window, and Lynn finally made an appearance, surprising Sebastian with how she lit up in Jan's presence. 

"Hallo mijn vriend!" Jan stood to embrace Lynn, or rather, to be enthusiastically embraced by her. "I see I am missed." 

"You are. You must come more often. You've met Sebastian?"

"I have. Where do you find these splendid kine?" Jan noticed Julia, standing off to one side and behind her mistress. The Lictor took her hand and kissed it, adding, "Speaking of. It's a pleasure to see you again, Julia. You simply must let me buy you a ring one of these days." 

"An' it's good to see you, Lictor. You know as well as I do that's not for ghouls." Julia was flustered by the attention, but it didn't look to be unwelcome. Sebastian guessed that staying in this old quiet mansion made sudden company more overwhelming to her, but Jan was obviously respectful... perhaps more than respectful, from the way they watched her a moment longer. If Julia really was a hundred years old, Sebastian has a great deal of history to observe.

Jan excused themself to the next room to find a human to request a drink from, before the proceedings could get underway, and Anneke introduced herself to Lynn. Unlike Jan, it seemed Lynn and Anneke hadn't met, and the former was polite, but somewhat less emotionally vulnerable. It could also have as much to do with clan difference, Sebastian supposed. 

More hoofbeats on the cobblestones out front announced more visitors, and a comparatively noisy but small group arrived, chatting amongst themselves. Sebastian was not yet aware of how to tell Kindred apart from kine, but it would be a fool who could not detect something inhuman in Nikolaus Vermeulen. His skin was mottled and stretched tight over a ratlike skull with sunken eyes, and his ears protruded like lunate fish fins, up and down. But his teeth were most impressive, half vermin and half predator, they were curved and contentiously on display. 

The cause of the contention might well have been his company - three very well dressed, attractive (and by all visual accounts, human) persons, discussing in glowing terms the "Horses of St Mark", through context, an artistic conquest of Napoleon's. It confused Sebastian why they should care about art, until she heard one of them mention the horses were of Alexander the Great's era. Perhaps some of them had lived, or had sires who had lived so long ago? She hadn't a clue. 

She found herself trying neither to stare nor to look obviously away from Vermeulen, though he found his company less than engaging, he dutifully listened until Lynn approached - and grasped his gnarled, taloned hand utterly without fear. Lynn kissed it, in the way that Jan had done for Julia, but also subtly different. Lynn's included a bowing of the head, a genuflection of the knee that had been absent in Jan's offer to the ghoul. 

"Thank you for hosting us." Vermeulen's voice was desiccated, a scratchy old dried leaf across concrete, and a slight whistle accompanied the novel shape of his mouth and teeth as he made the words. "Hopefully we will sort the matter straightforwardly." He spoke in French as well, but with an accent Sebastian fairly placed as Dutch. He was older than the local adoption of French, Sebastian supposed he would have to have been, to be a Prince over these people, but he was impossible to age.

Julia had disappeared and returned with a glass of blood - Sebastian looked away a moment and then back, to confirm, and Vermeulen took it with gratitude and a soft word to her. All Lynn's companions seemed fond of the ghoul. But Sebastian was distracted from the idea of blood drinking by one of the art enthusiasts, who had stopped at the sight of Anneke and gestured to her.

"There must be some mistake, Justicar. I am Gwendolyn Fleming. I was sent to discuss this incident with the honorable Vermeulen and the Tremere representatives." It was obvious she was trying to be polite, but she was clearly offended at Anneke's presence alone. 

The Justicar didn't seem to share the offense, "That is a matter you will need to discuss with Villon after this meeting. He requested an influential Toreador presence." 

The insult was obvious, and Sebastian thought for a moment she might witness both women attack one another mutually, but Gwendolyn restrained herself in the manner of a creature that must, rather than a creature that felt the inclination. "Indeed. He has two influential Toreador presences, then." She said instead, but it was too late to regain any grace. Anneke actually turned aside as if she had already forgotten the other Toreador's presence, and the remaining two retainers of Gwendoyln murmured to one another in low tones.

Jan returned, perhaps purposefully having witnessed nothing. "So then. We're only waiting on the Tremere." They wiped their mouth, with a small floral handkerchief, a spot of reddish brown as they put it away into their pocket again, and Sebastian remained quiet. 

Lynn appeared by her side, leaning to murmur, "If you think the atmosphere is charged now, wait until we have everyone." 

"What was she so angry about?" Sebastian asked, "That Anneke was assigned this position over her head?" 

Lynn considered. "It's strange to have a Justicar here at all. It would be strange even to have their subordinate, an Archon, here for a meeting like this. It almost seems to imply the Toreador believe war is _inevitable_ between the two clans." 

Jan had not said quite as much, and Sebastian was beginning to suspect they had a talent for understatement.


	4. Chapter 4

Half an hour passed, and Prince Vermeulen did not attempt to disguise his impatience in front of the other Kindred, pacing in front of one of the bookshelves with a twisted gait. 

"The Tremere appear to _understate_ the importance of this matter," He observed. 

"I'm sure there's a good reason." Jan soothed, "Shall we go downstairs?" 

"Yes." Lynn was relieved that she was not the only one to give instruction, despite this being her Elysium. Sebastian followed the rest of them downstairs to the cellar, leaving only Julia to inform the late guests when they arrived. 

The cellar was typical, with nothing to suggest there was any supernatural influence, though if anything perhaps suspicious amount of furniture and amusements, as if the occupant spent a great deal of time there. There was a large billiards table, darts, and a modest stack of board games, including dice, cards, chess, backgammon, and the Dutch edition of _Het Stoomboots Spel._ Sebastian thought about Lynn in the daylight hours playing with Julia by candlelight. 

This simply altered the location of the Prince's brooding, as he took up pacing again. Sebastian could sympathize, given what she had been told about his busy schedule, and the anticipation of open warfare. She didn't know yet what was regular for their species, and taking cues from Jan seemed misleading. She could appreciate a cool head, but she badly wanted more information. 

Anneke and Gwendolyn appeared to have entered into a mutual ignoring pattern, with the former standing patiently, almost unmoving, by the far exit, one that led presumably deeper into catacombs, or some kind of escape tunnel. Not an unwise thing for a creature destroyed by daylight to have, Sebastian mused. 

"Thaumaturgy," Jan was informing Sebastian pleasantly, "Is the name the Tremere give to their magical command over their blood. Their employment of the skill, rather than the skill itself has made them very unpopular with many Kindred. Everyone may admire your swordplay until you wave a blade at them." 

Sebastian nodded, finding that the metaphors were apt to explain much more than she could grasp with the terms alone, "Indeed." 

Jan looked up at Anneke, "If you were the Tremere's Justicar, I might ask you for a demonstration," They joked.

"If I were the Tremere's Justicar, I might take offense at your depiction of my Clan." Anneke returned, not without humor, "But I am no more likely to know thaumaturgy than Sebastian." 

From up above, there came the murmuring of low voices, and Julia entered to announce; "Magister Troius, Apprentice Sabine Lafitte, and Regent Cohn Rose, of Clan Tremere." 

The three who entered were as different from one another as they were from Sebastian's mental image of a 'blood mage'. Troius was brawny and wide, covered in runic tattoos and with a boisterously pleasant vibe - Sabine was smaller, wiry and dressed as conservatively as she looked about the room, and Cohn was all public relations, approaching Lynn to thank her for hosting Elysium and then facing the wrath of the Prince without flinching. 

"I apologize for our lateness. Our carriage suffered a broken axle on the way, and it took us over an hour to repair it. We were close to just walking." 

"How unlucky." Jan observed, softly. 

"Yes," Cohn agreed, and was relieved to see the Prince's expression soften by degrees. "I hope we can reach an accord. Is - this the Toreador Justicar?" Cohn recovered admirably, but there was a moment, like a small fish darting in a pond to suddenly course correct away from a mighty pike's questing mouth. He saw the Justicar's presence as every bit the harbinger of war that Lynn seemed to, and a perilous moment of silence followed.

"I am." 

Gwendolyn looked as though she was trying not to swallow her own tongue rather than interrupt and face whatever penalties the Justicar might mete out, and sat back in her chair, folding her arms tightly. She, at least, was not happy, and Sebastian couldn't tell if it was in relation to the snub or if she would rather deescalate. It was too early to tell. 

Cohn bowed to her, clasping hands in a strange way that Sebastian hadn't ever seen before and supposed was unique to Tremere (or Kindred) custom. He was either the spokesperson or the most proactive of the three, because Anneke recognized him as the 'leader', drawing forward as he offered one hand. Before she could engage, Jan was up and interposing their tiny self between them in one nimble move, reaching to take Cohn's hand. They almost made it look natural. 

"Charming to meet you, and I am Jan Pieterzoon of the Ventrue," They did not give Cohn the full introduction, but it was no less warm for its brevity, "I defer now to the Prince." 

Vermeulen snorted. "Go on. I'm only here to supervise. I'll ask if I have a question." 

Cohn recovered admirably with so many individuals to track, getting a rolled up piece of paper out of his coat and unfurling it onto the nearby table, weighing it down with books at all corners. It was a map of Belgium and the upper north-east portions of France. Sebastian didn't crowd, but she did lean to get a glimpse, very interested. 

"Formerly, the Toreador's official dominance could be marked at the boundary of Charleroi, but currently they have bled far beyond, up to Waterloo, following the campaign of the human Napoleon and along the way pocketing neatly whatever relics they have come across. This also includes relics from the Tzimisce in Russia and from the Setites in Egypt, among others of the Laibon that I am not qualified nor interested in discussing. The Tremere's primary Chantry in this part of the world is in Brussels, not far from the Prince himself, and we are of the Prince's Camarilla, and so are the Toreador who have arrived here. There is an influx..." 

"How many?" Anneke asked.

Cohn gave her a strange look. "My information is, fifty to sixty. But you would know better than I?" 

"Indeed." Anneke was satisfied by that answer. Perhaps she only asked questions to which she already knew the answers. Perhaps she was trying to rattle Cohn. 

Meanwhile, Cohn's assistants, Troius and Lafitte looked much content to allow Cohn to face, at least for the moment, but neither of them were _pleased._ They were varying shades of surly throughout the depiction of the contested arena on the map, and the depiction of 'relics'. 

Jan picked up on that, too; "Excuse me, Justicar. Just for my own understanding, did the Tremere own the relics in this area that are now held by the Toreador?" 

Cohn was wordless, glancing back at Lafitte, who had only been named as an apprentice, and then to Troius - the miscalculated look of appeal displayed more than his expression that he was shook and not sure who to see as defender and who as predator. Troius came to his rescue. 

"The Tremere are best suited for such objects; to study them, manage their protection from the Sabbat, and ensure the Traditions are upheld as to their use." 

_So, no._ Sebastian intuited, but said nothing. Lynn smiled when she met her eyes, hopefully encouraged by Sebastian's quiet observations, her... data gathering. 

"State your hopes for this meeting's outcome, Cohn." Vermeulen prompted suddenly. 

Under increased pressure, Cohn tugged quietly on one ruffled sleeve, and admitted, "The Toreador boundry line re-established at Charleroi and the appropriated relics surrendered for study and protection to the Chantry in Brussels, my Prince." 

Vermeulen looked to Anneke, who interpreted that as an invitation to say what she wanted, peering over her smoked glasses at Cohn with a cat's eye gleam at a canary. 

"I suggest you relocate your Chantry to nearby Louvain, and leave the possessions in the capable hands of the Toreador. Boundaries rarely remain static, especially for those as long lived as we. You may have had a case when you asked for territory to be respected, but asking for 'relics' disinclines me to be so generous. The Toreador took battlefield risks to preserve these artifacts; you did not." 

Both Troius and Gwendolyn looked abruptly incensed by that, and Sebastian understood why - it was almost purposefully provocative, coming close to calling them cowards and opportunists. For Gwendolyn to look angry was - even more interesting to Sebastian, because she stood to gain from a strong offense, and she was currently looking as though she wished to check her own Justicar. A glance at Vermeulen betrayed nothing - his ratlike jaw was closed tight, observing. 

"We can be reasonable." Cohn rallied, putting a companionable hand on Troius' wrist, and seeming to force down his hand, which had instinctively risen with fingers outstretched, "And review the artifacts, as you call them, one by one. It is of benefit to the Camarilla--" 

"To further empower the Tremere?" Anneke cut him off, and he paused, and then proceeded with thin ice caution. 

"Please, allow me to continue, Anneke. The Tremere have mastered wards, the better to ensure the Sabbat do not benefit from stockpiles of magical items. The Toreador have only what the mortals have at their disposal, and ghouls are very poor security. Obviously we understand your desire to keep items of artistic merit, which is why I believe a case by case basis is the fairest method for adjudication." 

It seemed almost as though these two were going at it for Vermeulen's benefit, making their case not to one another but to _him._ Jan was also watching studiously, and not in the way of a referee. Their goals were as controlled as their expression and tone, and Sebastian was having trouble locking down what they wanted. 

"The Toreador will give the Tremere nothing." Anneke said, calmly. 

Jan chewed their lip, moving just out of Sebastian's peripheral vision, closer to the billiards table, as Cohn appeared visibly fraying under this complete lack of compromise. Troius looked moments away from a very inadvisable comment, and the runic tattoos on his skin actually rippled in the dim light with their own strange glow. But this was Elysium, Sebastian thought, wondering if they'd act like tavern brawlers and take it outside. 

"Anneke?" Jan asked, politely, and then threw one of the carved ivory billiard balls at Anneke's head, at full speed. 

The Justicar whipped around faster than Sebastian's eye could track, and grabbed the ball midair, showing the first sign of genuine irritation all night. "What are you playing at, Pieterzoon?" 

"So you do have celerity." Jan mused. "But unfortunately, the real Anneke is left handed." 

The room exploded into chaos, accusations, and the Prince actually stood as if in readiness to do something drastic, but Anneke - or whoever it was - vaulted over the nearby couch, narrowly missing the Prince, hit the ground at the bottom of the stairs and then bolted toward them. Troius reacted first, making a gesture in the air - and the door, untouched by his hand, slammed shut and audibly locked in the imposter's face. She growled, turning as the group reorganized itself and advanced on her. 

"I surrender." 

"I hoped you would." Jan admitted, "Who are you really?" 

Instead of answering, the infiltrator reached down - growing curved talons from her fingertips and ripping the skin of her flesh, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. The skin underneath was pale greenish, her arms blossomed with spines, and her face - pure black eyes that utterly lacked fear. She was naked before them, with a breathtaking, almost otherworldly appearance. 

"Sascha Vykos." Prince Vermeulen broke the silence. 

The Tremere whispered among themselves, and from Jan, Sebastian caught the phrase _"the Angel!"_ Despite their superior numbers, Elysium's enforced pacifistic wards, and the cornered nature of the infiltrator, no one seemed to want to approach Sascha first. It was Troius who finally moved, taking Sascha's wrists without resistance from the so-called Angel, and tying them with rope behind herself. She had a serenity in the face of this treatment that touched Sebastian like a force in its own right, a billowing aura of _acceptance_ that felt as old as the cosmos itself. 

"I don't understand." Sebastian was emboldened, approaching the Prince directly. "She is - an enemy of your people? What will become of her?" 

Vermeulen might have smiled; it was hard to say with the shape of his jaw, but he sounded benign, "Nothing terrible, Sascha is a very valuable prisoner. We can trade her for someone the Sabbat has imprisoned. As fanatic as they can be, the Sabbat will negotiate with us, in certain circumstances." 

Sascha was encouraged to walk past Sebastian, meeting her eyes, and then was escorted without ceremony to the small room used for wine storage. Gwendolyn approached Jan and audibly thanked them - exuberantly - for exposing a traitor and for averting a _much undesired_ war with the Tremere, and Cohn settled back into the negotiations with her that he had formerly been rebuffed from making with Sascha. 

All this happened in a somewhat haphazard fashion and was no longer nearly as much to Sebastian's interest as the mysterious Sascha Vykos, but she collared her own curiosity and continued to observe. Ultimately Gwendolyn and Cohn negotiated that the territory would go uncontested if the Toreador would surrender whatever non-artistic antiquities were recovered and thought to be of value to the Tremere or of danger to the Masquerade. From Cohn's expression and Jan's understated pleasure, Sebastian supposed that the territory dispute was just a pretext for the actual bone of contention - those objects. Cohn's early surprise at the complete lack of compromise must have been understandable to everyone but Sebastian... 

She pulled Jan aside as soon as she could fairly do so, "How did you know to suspect that wasn't Anneke?" 

Jan grinned sheepishly. "I really didn't; I have trust issues, and I was prepared to be in a great deal of trouble for insulting a Justicar on a hunch. Sascha is one of the most talented Tzimisce living in these modern nights, and she has had hundreds of years to perfect her art. Physically, she was a flawless replica."

"I'd like to speak with her." 

"You are full of curiosity!" Jan remarked, "And no fear? I anticipate the party otherwise will be sleeping soon. It's far too late to try to return home before daybreak. But if you should want to interrogate Sascha, as long as you keep your distance... disciplines can be used in Elysium if they aren't violent, as you've seen. She might try to convince you to set her free. But I'll be outside, waiting." 

Sebastian was grateful, and missed the thoughtful way the Prince regarded her as she exited to the wine cellar. The prisoner looked up, bright black eyes like a shark's in the dim light. A candle burned on a nearby stool. Sascha said nothing.

"Hello, Mx. Vykos." Sebastian said, "I am... Ms. Sebastian LaChance." 

The Tzimisce blinked once, slowly. "It's nice to meet you," She decided, serenely, "Why are you here?" 

Sebastian hesitated. "Do you mean here in this house or here in this room? I was a war prisoner from Waterloo. I'm not a vampire." 

Sascha gave a husky chuckle. "I can tell. I can hear your heartbeat."

"Ah." Sebastian moved the candle and sat on the stool. Sascha was sitting in the corner, bound hands in front of her. "I'd just like to speak to you a bit, if you don't mind. I'm very new to this whole existence, so I would be grateful for whatever you could tell me... as yourself, not feigning the opinions of your enemies." 

Sascha gestured with bound hands toward the door, "It appears you have already chosen your side... or, if a prisoner, as you say, then a side has been chosen for you." She had a strange lilting accent that Sebastian couldn't source, and what she said was illustrated with the magnificent calm of a glacier, with all the time in the world to advance relentlessly, inch by inch, toward a fated directive. What that directive was, Sebastian wasn't at all sure, but neither did she feel an innate threat from this small, modest creature. 

"I am not averse to hearing multiple perspectives." Sebastian said, finally.

"You will make a good Ventrue." Sascha observed, "If you remain with them, you will make - a middling Ventrue. Of course, there are members of that clan in the Sabbat." 

Sebastian latched on to the conversational thread, "You said that the sects are enemies because of how you have decided to interact with humanity, and because of your fears of apocalypse that the Camarilla belittles."

"If only the Camarilla, as a rule, were so open-minded as Pieterzoon." Sascha said, noncommittally. 

Sebastian had already reached the paltry limits of her working knowledge about Kindred culture, at least down this particular path, and was back to questioning. "What good would it have done to have the Tremere and Toreador fighting?" 

"Distractions, mostly." Sascha deflected.

"You're many hundreds of years old and one of the most accomplished Tzimisce Jan knows about - and Jan is not given to hyperbole - and you came here, yourself, risking your own skin, for 'distractions'?" Sebastian repeated, "I may be kine, as you say, but I am no fool." 

The Tzimisce was silent for a long moment. "...Indeed. You will be a formidable Cainite. Many will be threatened by you."

"Praise won't work either." Sebastian said lightly, "If you don't want to discuss it with me, I can't force you, but I'm not so easily deterred. I will be asking Jan, and the Prince, why someone so important was so eager to put yourself at risk for the sake of this conflict." 

She made to get up, and Sascha shifted restlessly. "Wait." 

Sebastian sat back down. 

"I am many things that would mean nothing to you, but I am a truth-seeker. If you respect the truth, even when - especially when - it is not kind to you, or of benefit to you, then you will understand why I could not delegate this mission. I had to determine where the artifacts were being kept, in the guise of an outsider with authority over the Toreador." 

The door opened, and Jan slipped inside, "I couldn't help overhearing," Their smile said that they could have helped, quite easily, "But permit me just to ask, what would it be worth to you to secure this item?" 

Sascha squinted at Jan as if trying and failing to fit the Ventrue into her worldly conception. "A favor. A... significant favor." 

Jan held their finger to their lips in view of Sebastian, "This is not Camarilla sanctioned. In future, if I am to be of assistance, Ms. Vykos, it would be in your best interest to deny all knowledge that I ever spoke to you, let alone offered you assistance in retrieving...?" 

"The Horses of St. Mark." Vykos completed, helpfully. "They are copper statues, life-sized horses, so named because they were stolen from Constantinople in 1204 CE to ornament St. Mark's Basilica. I was not aware of their importance then, nor able to seek them until they changed hands again more recently, thanks to these Toreador." 

Jan looked as though they'd tasted something bitter. "Life-sized horses. You couldn't wish to smuggle... something pocket sized? A gem, or a scroll?" They sighed through their nose, "It can be done. Give me a little time, and continue to be cooperative." 

Sascha smiled at them, winningly. Sebastian didn't feel quite so confident, following Jan out. Surely by now it would be daybreak, but Troius stood by the locked door to guard it, and gave them both a suspicious look. As soon as they were alone, Sebastian confronted Jan. 

"The Sabbat are the enemies of the Camarilla. And magic - if they are magic - for any degree of favor, is it wise?" 

"Of course it is. The very lifeblood of our species is cooperation. Favors, compromises, offerings, and future boons to be named later. Even the most altruistic of us must surely hope their kindness is repayed in a dark hour of need - believe me, the Tremere do not need whatever it is Vykos wishes to own. And I badly need her goodwill toward me in the future."

"Why? Don't the Ventrue protect their own?"

"That is a powerful insult against our clan," Jan said neutrally, just informing her, "The Ventrue are not in a position to offer me what Vykos can. Please, Sebastian. Do what I have already noticed and liked about you, and be discreet about this. Watch, and wait, and you will understand more."

The Dutch Ventrue left Sebastian much more troubled than before.


	5. Chapter 5

After Jan exited further into the recesses of the basement, and not up the stairs (Sebastian supposed that the door was locked as much for their protection as it was to keep Sascha Vykos a prisoner), she sat awhile with her troubled thoughts in the entertainment room. There was no clock, and without the aid of the changing light, she had no idea what time it was, or whether the guests upstairs had gone. The Kindred slept, or conducted their business behind the closed doors as silently as corpses.

Troius alone was visible in her line of sight, and he stood unmoving in front of the door, with a grim determination. He would not, she realized, delegate this task to anyone. Why was Sascha so feared? What was it about her that made Jan so eager to broker with her? Things that Jan's clan 'could not provide'? 

Sebastian wanted to speak to the Prince, but in a way that would not betray the confidence Jan already had given her. The other Tremere, Sabine?, approached Troius, exchanging a few quiet words, left again briefly and returned with a long, sharp piece of wood. Sebastian from her position on the couch nearby, tried to make standing up a subtle affair, but neither of the Kindred paid a great deal of attention to her generally.

"So that we may not take chances." Troius said quietly, and opened the door. 

Sebastian had a number of options. She could inform the Prince - or Lynn - but that hazarded that the Prince didn't already know, and the politics here were too complicated for one evening's observation. She could do nothing, as it wasn't her responsibility - yet, or ever. Or she could intervene personally, and risk a great deal of safety. Nothing so far indicated these vampires were mindless murderers, or animals, despite the Baroness' early warnings of war and treachery. 

And yet, Sebastian was human. There was always the chance that humans were disposable. 

She followed the Tremere into the wine cellar cum impromptu prison cell, standing virtually ignored at the doorway as they lifted Sascha onto the table, bound arms under her, and ribcage exposed. They really meant to put a stake through her heart, Sebastian realized, and kill her, as in the vampire legends. 

"Stop!" Sebastian barked, loud enough to accomplish the ends of alerting the Prince and Lynn, hopefully, and certainly loud enough to make Troius jump. Sascha was particularly serene for someone inches from impalement, turning her coal-black gaze on Sebastian with interest. "Magister Troius, you can't do this to a prisoner. Even humans have these laws!" Sebastian was encouraged by Troius' lack of violent response, "Listen to me." 

The Magister showed his teeth, but didn't loom or otherwise threaten, "Someone get this whelp out of here - Apprentice! Restrain this fool."

Sabine caught Sebastian's arm, pulling her away with the strength of five horses, and Sebastian could no more resist it than a kitten being scruffed. "--I said stop!" 

"Oh, you'll be a Ventrue, alright," Sabine remarked, but her voice and her restraint were both as gentle as they could be. Sascha continued to watch Sebastian raptly, giving a token glance to her would-be impaler, and then Vermeulen was at the door, roused by Sebastian's cries, hopefully.

"What is the meaning of this, Troius." Vermeulen sounded as though he wanted to say something further, and the silence hung delicate for a split-second as Troius evaluated, with the tip of the stake indenting Sascha's skin. 

"I apologize for disturbing you, Prince. We thought it best, in light of how dangerous Sascha is, to stake as well as restrain her." 

While Vermeulen took a moment to digest that, Sascha offered, "So much discomfort from Tremere is a compliment." 

The murine Prince's expression twisted into something decidedly negative. "Ms. Vykos, please keep your peace." He turned to Sabine, but addressed Sebastian. "To stake one of our kind merely immobilizes. It will not cause lasting harm. The Tremere would never dream of killing a prisoner belonging to the Nosferatu." 

Troius paused, and then shrugged off the comment, deciding neither to confirm or deny. Sebastian felt abruptly small, as though she had overreacted, but there was something in the Tremere's attitude she disliked, and couldn't reproach herself too much for the strong feeling. 

"More than risk betraying fear, it would also be rude to react to a prisoner like this in Lynn's hosted Elysium, and imply she cannot control her domain. I think the Tremere would curb insulting the Ventrue at this juncture, as well." The Prince added. He exited, content with that reminder that nothing further would happen, and it actually seemed he was right: Troius backed away from Sascha with a scowl and a mutter of 'damn Ventrue'. Sascha sat up on the table, slowly, and looked not at all concerned, vengeful, or grateful to any of the assembled. 

Sebastian left, more perturbed than before, no longer sure that any of these individuals liked any of the rest - though Jan had said the Ventrue were happy with Vermeulen, and the Toreador had struck a bargain with the Tremere, there was far too much going on in the background for her to be confident in her observations. She slept, somehow, the couch in the cellar a poor substitute for the bed upstairs, and when someone shook her shoulder gently, Sebastian woke to that odd feeling of discombobulation, lacking time and place and context for her location, and then focused on Jan's face. 

"How did it go?" She asked, curious about the horse theft.

Jan shook their head. "Still working on that, but I'm grateful that you didn't tell anyone. Walk with me?" 

Sebastian realized as they exited the cellar that it was nightfall, and that her exhaustion had carried her through sleeping the majority of the day. Outside, many of the carriages remained standing, their horses stabled for the night and their Elysium guests present for a long haul. Crickets and other night insects proclaimed their loud search for congress, and the moon was a half smile in a clear sky. She appreciated the cool air. 

Jan lit up a cigarette. "A lot of excitement for you, wasn't it." 

"You smoke?" Sebastian asked, interested, but then added, "I'm still learning, I don't know how common it is to have a Tzimisce shapeshifting double agent attempt to provoke a clan war." 

Smoke curled pleasantly from Jan's nose as they tried not to laugh and half-succeeded. "Smoking doesn't do anything for me, but it's not going to harm me, either. And disasters like last night's aren't commonplace, but we do deal with challenges regularly. I've met with Anneke once before, and it was brief, but I remembered her mannerisms well enough to trust my instincts. My human father taught me to be observant." 

Sebastian inhaled politely in the other direction. "Fortunate." 

"No, I didn't communicate that very clearly, I'm sorry. He taught me with a mercurial temper. A fist one day, a smile and praise the next. You become involuntarily observant of many things, afterward." 

"...I'm sorry." Sebastian looked back to their companion. 

Jan waved the sympathy off without outrightly dismissing it. "Don't worry. I didn't ask you out here to discuss that. I wanted to thank you properly for keeping your silence, and to talk to you about the way you handled Vykos. How you managed to get her to admit why she was here. I'd like to make you a ...business proposition." 

Sebastian, at this point, had no idea how to quantify what a vampire would consider 'business', and so nodded without asking. "I'm listening." 

"The Baroness is agoraphobic. This is an open secret, it's why she has this esteemed Elysium but rarely leaves, why she's several hundred years old but has very little 'ruling territory'. That attitude is unusual for a Ventrue, if not scandalous, because she does assist in every way she can. But if you submit to being ghouled and Embraced by her, you're going to languish here, with little political capital and only the training that visiting clan members would give you." 

Sebastian remembered Vykos' observation that she was a prisoner, and how her side was chosen - as if she could forget, even with Lynn's kind and cordial treatment, the circumstances that had led her there. And she hadn't tested Lynn's promise to send her home, with a vow of silence or otherwise. 

"What do you propose instead?" Sebastian asked, after the silence stretched just-so uncomfortably. 

"Let me Embrace you." Jan's eyes were bright, and the cigarette almost burned to its end despite how recently it had been lit, smoked away vigorously. "We can tell them the Baroness did so, and in passion; I'd 'adopt', and train you in other countries, other circumstances. If I Embrace you overtly, my own sire will disapprove of not being told, but no one has to know. There are only a few ways to tell for certain, and why would anyone bother?" 

"But-..." Sebastian stopped, unsure, and at Jan's encouraging look, continued, "Why do you _want_ to Embrace me?" 

"Didn't I make it obvious? You have natural curiosity, discretion, and political acumen. I could make you an excellent Ventrue. You would want for no education - you'd have your own territory as soon as you were of Elder status. Possibly sooner."

"I have to think about this." Sebastian appealed, "Why would the Baroness go along with it? Wouldn't it damage her reputation? And the Prince - if she didn't ask the Prince, it's a crime." She tried to recall what Julia had said, but Jan was stubbing out the cigarette and moving closer. Abruptly, Sebastian felt a fear that she hadn't felt before, and took a step back even as she cursed herself for the telegraphed weakness.

Jan paused, and halted their advance, recognizing unspoken that Sebastian was afraid without drawing attention to it. 

"The true curse of the Ventrue clan is unrealistic expectations." They managed to make it sound apologetic. "I may Embrace you without asking the Prince, but I wouldn't Embrace you unwillingly. Even bloodbonded, you'd be recalcitrant, and the Ventrue cannot Embrace as flippantly as some other clans. I'm not sure you'd be tolerable." 

"What do you mean?" Sebastian's unease banked, as Jan showed no signs of getting any closer, but neither did they retreat. She couldn't convince herself to be offended by the prospect that Jan wouldn't impulsively kill her, even if it was to raise her again as a vampire. She had so little knowledge of the whole process. 

"Put simply, we are easily poisoned." Jan remarked, dryly. "All clans have a difficulty unique to them, though some find it less of an encumberance than others. Each Ventrue has but one type of kine, broadly or narrowly defined, that they can safely drink from. If I were to Embrace you, we should have to do it some other way. I can't be sure without asking unkind personal questions for which you would be justified in not forgiving me." 

Sebastian frowned. "How do you normally manage?" 

"I am selective. I interact with humans who understand the Ventrue condition and are not likely to be distressed. And I sometimes cull from the human masses what Kindred call a 'herd'; they are retainers that I know to be safe." 

"Ah, yes. The 'blood dolls'." Sebastian repeated Julia's comment. She shook her head, "All this talk of Embracing me at all is unpleasant, Mx. Pieterzoon. Understand that I have not known of your people for a week, and I suspect what I have been told barely scratches the surface of your society." 

Jan looked, astonishingly, appropriately scolded and apologetic. "Then forget it. Take it as a gesture of how highly I think of your conduct, and we'll speak of it no more." 

Sebastian pressed her advantage. "But what I would like to speak of is your deal with Vykos. Do you have any idea for what use the horses were forged, or why she wants them?" 

"No, and they could be the four horses of the human apocalypse." Jan said, "Her goodwill toward me is valuable enough to risk it."

"Would the Prince agree?" Sebastian asked, "It seems to me, this is a decision he should make." 

"You will **keep this secret.** " 

Jan's voice, so gentle and calm, took on a sudden edge, and Sebastian found herself struggling suddenly to rationalize what felt so sure, moments ago, as a good reason to confess. 

"I-... yes." She fumbled, "But, I seek only understanding in these matters, not your enmity." 

"Never mind. You have concerns enough for your own health." Jan's eyes were deep. Impossibly deep. Sebastian briefly forgot herself, her whole body and surroundings, and shook off the feeling of dissociation through effort. Her bullet wound, cleaned and miraculously not infected, was giving her trouble for the first time in days, and she suspected it was a combination of the horse-ride with Julia and sleeping crunched-up on the couch. Strange that it rose to her notice at that moment, when Jan reminded her. How had they known? 

"I'm not completely well." She agreed, "I should be resting. But so much has happened." 

"Come with me." The Lictor guided her back to her room - the one upstairs, not the basement - and all but tucked her in, and despite sleeping for a long while, fatigue draped across her bones and she lost another hour in a deep and dreamless nap. The door opened, clicking sharply enough to wake her, and for a moment she and the Baroness stared at one another in mutual confusion.

"I thought you'd be keen to interact with the others." Lynn had, to her credit, brought food, and Sebastian fell upon it with the enthusiasm of the daydreamingly half-starved. "Has something happened? Did Vermeulen frighten you?" 

"I have seen war injuries that are worse than Prince Vermeulen." Sebastian dismissed, "He is shocking, at first, but I feel I'm already used to him. And he seems a restrained individual. I like to see that in someone with authority." 

"You do see the truest measure of a person when you give them power." Lynn observed, almost to herself. "So why are you here and not down there?" 

A handful of grapes paused on the way to being plucked and eaten, and Sebastian visited a troubled look down at her plate. "I was tired. I'm unwell." 

Lynn gently touched her chin, and tipped her head back up to look at her face. "You do look it." 

The intimate, feather-light touch sent an immediate and not unwelcome thrill through Sebastian, craving not solely kindness but something unavailable from both parents and nanny - a welcoming person, an interest in her thoughts and presence. Someone who ascribed value to Sebastian, and not just her abilities, or marks in the military academy, or medals. 

"Eat as much as you wish, there's more in the kitchen." Lynn leaned in very close to her head, and whispered, "Has someone threatened you? Be honest, Sebastian. I will protect you." 

"No," Sebastian said, conversationally, and then, "No, I - think this is plenty. But your generous offer is in line with the rest of your attitudes as host, and I won't forget it."

"Hmn." Lynn didn't seem satisfied, drawing back. Sebastian realized having her so close to the throbbing jugular vein in her throat caused no distress whatsoever. Not even the faintest treacherous thought that the Baroness might bite. 

Halfway through her meal, she was overcome again by curiosity, which had not served to alienate her yet. "What can you tell me about the Ventrue feeding practice?"

Lynn opened her mouth, then closed it again, with an expression of warring amusement and sobriety. "That's a great level of detail, unnecessary for one not in our... 'circle', but I shall tell you, each individual member of our clan has some limitation on which blood we can drink. We keep it to ourselves, because if a rival were to poison or kill our sources, we should be vulnerable." 

"I see." Sebastian sat back. "You have already let me into your confidence. Do I fit the blood that you can drink?" 

"Most likely." Lynn stood up and folded her arms behind herself. "I 'favor', not through choice, those who left a piece of themselves on the battlefields." In more heavily accented French, she added, "The wind of the cannonball."

This was a phrase to describe the battle fatigue suffered by those who had seen combat but not died of it, and had emptiness, or nightmares, or fears beyond what they had before. Sebastian laughed. It was a hollow, mocking sound, even to herself. As Lynn saw fit to reveal weakness, it was only fair to confess. "I am yours, indeed." 

Traditional Ventrue composure won out in Lynn, but barely. "You don't have to come down if you don't feel you can manage. Be compassionate with your limitations." 

The Kindred left Sebastian alone, and for several minutes, she stared off into space. Then roused herself with reluctance, and came downstairs. In the advancing evening, the party had moved upstairs, and the Tzimisce was under comparatively light guard, seated in the library with bound hands before her. Neither the Tremere, nor the Prince, looked as though they wished to abandon their prize to the others, but there was another small debate raging as Sebastian entered. 

"No one will take the prisoner through the Sonian Forest without a Gangrel envoy." The Prince explained to Sebastian. 

"Is it so dangerous? Are the Gangrel a warrior clan?" Sebastian guessed. She was gratified to be worthy of the update, and eager to offer suggestions. 

"There are werewolves." Sascha answered, with a tone that hinted this situation, as with many others, caused her no end of amusement. "Deadly to most striplings, like these." 

Sebastian struggled to incorporate 'werewolves' into her worldview. She caught Troius' eye. "--Is your blood magic of no use?" 

Sascha laughed. "The Tremere prefer targets with less vigor." 

"I don't think you need your tongue to walk, Sascha." Troius threatened, receiving a stern look from the Prince, but no verbal censure. 

"Why is travel necessary?" Sebastian asked Lynn, who was adjusting the clockwork mechanism of a small Carcel lamp. 

"It is preferable for Lictor Pieterzoon's Sire, Hardestadt, to manage the hostage trade with the Sabbat." Lynn's nose wrinkled, and she added, impolitic, "It would be difficult to explain to him why he was not included, otherwise." 

Sebastian glanced at the Nosferatu Prince, still thinking. She had been thinking previously as well, but the rest had advantaged her, "Perhaps I could escort her?" 

Sascha was again giving her a detached look of interest, thinking her a coward, a fool, an opportunist, or perhaps all three. 

"You're not even a ghoul." Troius remarked, "And the werewolves would gladly open you from throat to groin to get to her. Cohn is a diplomat. I will not send an apprentice into territory this dangerous... and I understand that the Prince must soon return to his other duties in Brussels."

That left Jan, a Ventrue, and Gwendolyn... Sebastian looked around for the fiery Toreador, wondering if she would elect to go, but she sat in the corner in meditative silence. Perhaps weighing up the possibility of death? 

"You seem to have volunteered yourself, Troius." Vermeulen observed. 

Troius took a heavy and unnecessary breath, the better to sigh. "I will do this with the knowledge that I serve the Camarilla, and my Prince, with unerring loyalty." 

This time, Sascha and Vermeulen _both_ betrayed amusement, almost simultaneously. The latter folded his taloned hands. "Naturally, if you survive, I grant you a boon for this service, Troius. And if you do not survive, then the Clan Tremere is owed, instead." 

Satisfied, Troius directed Cohn and Sabine to ready the horses to depart immediately, which surprised Sebastian, but did not seem to ruffle Sascha in the slightest. Nothing did - not the prospect of werewolves, or being in the clutches of her enemies, or what might happen out from under the watchful eye of Vermeulen. She was... placid, genteel, and as she followed her captors out to the coach, she paused on the step to regard the moon in the sky. Troius climbed up front, and Vermeulen took a few moments to comfort the horses, displaying a kinship with them more powerful than any Sebastian had ever seen. They gentled completely under his touch, and seemed to look into his eyes with an understanding that man and animal rarely achieved. 

The Nosferatu Prince kissed the foreheads of each in turn, whispering, "Be swift, my beauties. Your survival depends on it."


	6. Chapter 6

“Would you permit me to go with them?” 

For the first time, Sebastian asked the Baroness to prove she was serious about letting her prisoner come and go as she pleased. D’Olmen did not disappoint. 

“You may. Take this with you,” She took off a signet ring with the familiar crest: the rampant murdered stag, and hung it on a gold chain around Sebastian’s neck. “I still am owed favors in Brussels. I would sooner be a beloved ruler of a small kingdom than a disliked stranger who rules over a vast land. But for our kind, boons and favors, kindnesses and debts, are more important than lifeblood. Remember that.” 

The ring felt heavy around Sebastian’s neck, and it was a good weight. “I will.” 

Cohn took a position inside the carriage, across from the still-bound Sascha, and Sebastian was about to boost herself up as well, when Jan’s shadow fell on her from behind. 

“Sebastian, a moment.” Jan phrased it like a request, and Sebastian turned obligingly, only to have a wax-sealed letter pressed into her hands. “I need this delivered to my Sire, Hardestadt, when you meet him in Brussels. Please ensure it is given only to him, no matter who else asks you for it.” 

Sebastian instinctively took the letter. “Yes. I will do so. It was - good to meet you, Lictor Pieterzoon.” 

Jan bowed deeply, “Safe travels, Ms. LaChance. I hope that the next time we meet, you are Ventrue, for I would be very glad to call you my clanmate.” 

Sebastian tucked the letter away and got into the carriage, and Troius set the horses to a quick pace toward the path into the Sonian’s foreboding trees. Sebastian watched the lights of Lynn’s mansion recede into the distance, replaced with the swallowing black of dense trees and the occasional glimpse of a bright moon. She rode in silence, with Sascha across from her and Cohn beside her. 

The diplomatic Tremere favored her with an uncertain smile, revealing very small fangs, and Sebastian returned the smile, finding Cohn Rose a comfortable traveling companion. There was certainly no reason for her to dislike him. Sascha passed a few bored looks over them both, then scooted backward and lay against the bench as if planning to nap throughout the journey. She looked... tired, and Sebastian was quite sure she hadn’t slept the night before, either. 

“Do you think the forest is really so dangerous?” Sebastian asked Cohn, who engaged with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely liked to inform. 

“Certainly there are good reasons to avoid it, but I should think we’ll be fine. Kindred of Ancillae age or older tend to be very cautious. And often that serves us well, but it’s habit-forming to then avoid any danger at all. Risks are the only way to advance!” 

Sebastian glanced at Sascha, whose eyes were closed. In the close confines, her skin was mottled, a cloudy greenish-gray that reminded Sebastian of ocean waters after a storm. Her hands, long-fingered and tied with rope, rested relaxed on her chest. At some point she had either been restrained again or had finagled her arms from behind to in front of herself. She continued to show not the slightest anxiety, either of their current situation in the forest, or any future encounter with Hardestadt. 

“Ms. Vykos.” Sebastian instigated, perhaps unwisely.

Sascha opened one eye.

“Do you intend to rest, or would you pass the time by speaking with me?” 

Something about that question, too, amused the Tzimisce. “I can find no rest here. Ask me your questions. I’ll see if they interest me.” 

Sebastian pondered. “Tell me what you’d do if you were the most powerful Kindred on Earth.” 

Sascha yawned, displaying that her fangs were, unlike Cohn’s, exceptionally visible. “Everyone knows I dream of Constantinople as a city of unified flesh and spirit. A paradise of common love.” 

Cohn betrayed absolutely no discomfort, folding one leg and leaning a small bound ledger onto it, the better to write a few things and look as though he was not, by necessity, eavesdropping on the conversation. 

Sebastian was intrigued. “Unified flesh?”

There was a momentary pause, but only insofar as Sascha needed the time to translate her thoughts into something more appreciably human. “Imagine if Cohn Rose could feel your pain and fear as if they were his own. Imagine how dedicated he might be to your welfare. Now think of an entire city, one long, compassionate synapse, where every cruelty was immediately reflected back onto you. That is the true future of our kind; the only reachable utopia on Earth.” 

Sebastian thought about it, and the only sound in the carriage was Cohn’s occasional scratching on the paper. She didn’t want to jump to immediate contradiction, however, some parts of that idea did bother her.

“You cannot force empathy onto others. It must be received to have any worth.” Sebastian navigated, “Your goal is noble, however.” 

“You cannot enforce laws?” Sascha returned, “You cannot discipline a child? Educate them? Show by example--”

“Forgive me, I don’t mean you cannot force any kind of compliance. Certainly you can structure a lawful society with money and armed guard, regardless of the moral fiber of its populace.” Sebastian warmed to the topic. “What I mean is that you cannot strongarm someone into caring about others. Not even through physical pain. Humans hurt themselves gladly through hatred, the whole species is the poorer when we are fractious, and look - in every way possible, we other, and fight, and resist the guidance of those who are the best of us. All these things harm us.” 

“Hmmm.” Sascha closed her eyes again, mulling over that answer. “The same could be said of Kindred. I’m sure you’re dying to find out why I hate the Tremere.” 

Cohn’s quill stopped writing momentarily, then resumed. Seeing that Sebastian was unsure, the Tremere offered, "We can discuss whatever you would like, but you must keep in mind that Magister Troius is protecting us as much as he is providing you an escort. It may be best to avoid controversial subjects, for now."

"You can only silence truth. It cannot be killed. And my truth cannot be cowed, either." Sascha responded. "Do not lose sight of the fact that your 'protection' extends only in that we do not encounter the wolves." 

"The Magister can handle a wolf." 

"There’s never just one." The Tzimisce looked out the window.

Sebastian risked it. “Why do you hate the Tremere?” 

Sascha’s eyes had the depthless black of a barn owl. “Why does any grown child hate their parent? A failure of guardianship. The disillusion of trust. A baptism of blood...” The Tzimisce nodded to Cohn, “His kind will tell you it is falsehood, propaganda, lies. I was there. I am very dangerous to their fables, for these centuries they have raped and pillaged every clan they are permitted to--” 

While Cohn did Sascha the courtesy of not interrupting, one of the horses abruptly screamed, a sound of pure distress that had Sebastian in sympathy prepared to climb out and see what was the matter. 

“What’s going on out there?” She called out the window, to Troius. 

“Damn things will not -- turn--” Troius scowled, “I thought the Prince enchanted these witless beasts!”

“There’s only one witless beast here,” Sascha baited idly, “What makes you think the Nosferatu would not have made certain that the Tremere delivered me to the Ventrue as you promised to do, and not to your own Chantry? Hm? How old are you?”

Troius didn’t answer, and Sascha sat up, straining her pointed ears. In the carriage, framed by the forest out the window, she looked to Sebastian like one of the Good People. If she noticed Sebastian’s spellbound admiration of her alien form, she gave no sign, instead intently listening. 

“Your death comes, Tremere.” Sascha announced. “The horses do not disobey your direction; they can smell the wolves.” 

Sebastian leaned back against the door of the carriage, suppressing the instinct to run. It would do no good. She was committed now. “Surely they would kill you too.” 

“And you.” Sascha agreed, not unkindly. “Killing is their business. The horses, as well.” 

Cohn had the wide eyed stare of someone more accustomed to the interior of libraries than the battlefield, but Sebastian was fresh from just such an environ, and reached across to boldly grasp the rope of Sascha’s wrists. “You are not a fool, Sascha Vykos. Your best hope of survival lies with an alliance, however temporary. You cannot outrun them in the middle of their territory.” 

For good or ill, she did not have the luxury of hearing Sascha’s response, though the elfin lips parted - an impact rocked the carriage, something bodily crashing into the side and tipping it, and a sound that was pure, enormous predator. Everything inside the carriage tipped eastward, Sebastian striking her head against the side of the bench and feeling Cohn’s skin cold against her arm as the Tremere fought to get free of the sudden pile. 

Every animal instinct of Sebastian’s, so recently soothed by Lynn’s Elysium, began to scream a chorus of terror. 

She fought to orient herself, scrambling against the door that was pressed into the earth, and looked up into the slavering jaws of a ten foot tall wolf - stood like a man - crushing the wood paneling of the door facing skyward. Sebastian froze like a small animal, incapable of putting up any resistance, but for Sascha, familiarity seemed to breed contempt. 

She lifted a leg, almost like a stretching cat, but dislocating the hip bone to press blossoming talons against the rope binding her hands. Her flesh flowed as it had when she shed the Anneke disguise, but this time corded muscle snaked from under the skin, her face elongated and distorted, a batlike mien flooding out the delicate fae features. Sebastian realized she was growing a cloak of flesh, jagged, bone-studded wings too large to spread in the confines of the carriage.

“Now, Sebastian, I will teach you of the Path of Death and the Soul.” 

Sascha hauled herself bodily from the carriage, the motion flowing into an open-taloned kick at the wolf’s muzzle. Both combatants fell back and out of sight, but the action broke Sebastian’s paralysis. She scrambled up out of the carriage as well, noting Troius was engaging another of the slavering beasts, and then realizing the horses were still tethered to the downed carriage. 

She slid down and grabbed for the harness, as a howl cut through the night - a third wolf had joined the fray. How many were there? How many could Sascha and Troius vanquish? Would they fight until dead, or could they be convinced to flee by way of extreme violence? 

Sascha was a force of nature, her wings fifteen feet from tip to tip, her jaws gaping, kicking with motions that were clearly designed to eviscerate. Despite her smaller size, neither of her opponents wanted to get too close to those claws, and her spine was studded with razor sharp bone that helped discourage backbiting assault.

Troius’ approach was somewhat less conventional; he was animating the oaks. Sebastian had no context to even hope to describe what was happening there - mighty ancient trees uprooting themselves and swinging limbs at their opponents. She realized there was potentially no limit to what the Tremere might do, and then remembered Cohn, still cowering in the carriage. Hard to blame him - he was obviously of limited battlefield experience, and his knowledge of the situation was likely enhancing his fear, while Sebastian’s ignorance was a handy shield. Were there ten wolves waiting in the dark? Who knew. 

“The trunk!” Troius directed, “Cohn, damn you, get out here and help me!” 

Of course the Tremere wouldn’t ask a human over his own clanmate. Possibly wouldn’t even have expected Sascha’s help, either, though she was soaking the brunt of the enemy attack at this point. Sebastian, invoked or not, moved around the carriage, abandoning attempts to calm the horses. Only someone with supernatural prowess could do that with a fullscale attack happening, and the smell of wolves and blood in the air. If they broke their legs fighting the restraints, that would be unfortunate, but Sebastian was more interested in ‘the trunk’, unlocked, and yielding a multi-barrelled pistol. 

She checked the powder charge, automatic training kicking in, and then the pistol shot - it gleamed like silver in the dim light, but rattled reassuringly as she ran the lever down and primed it to fire. Ideally, there were seven shots. 

In practice, she wasn’t confident in British manufacture, and would prefer to have certain shots.

“Cohn!!” Troius was down, the wolf pressing above, digging teeth into his arm, trying to bite at his neck, but finding the angle of a killing blow awkward. Troius’ wide eyes locked on Sebastian. 

“The head? The heart?” Sebastian was desperate for guidance. From behind, Sascha scrambled up a tree for a split second of breathing time, and with the acute fear of a prey animal, Sebastian felt the wolves’ attention flicker. Perhaps to her. 

“Anywhere!” Troius’ imploring tone decided Sebastian, and she took aim, _hoping_ the other two wolves maintained their focus on Sascha. From this range it would be difficult, though not impossible to miss - the shot, and accompanying whine of pain, informed success.

Success, in this case, meant the injured wolf refocused on Sebastian as primary threat. 

She took a blind step back and felt the breeze of the claws that would have decapitated her, body robotically reloading the pistol as she thought, inanely, _the wind of the cannonball._

Point blank range, she could not miss, but the gun could jam - or explode, if poorly maintained. 

The wolf crumpled at her feet, but there was no time for congratulations, as two remained. 

Sascha’s green skin was black with rivulets of blood, although with the curious detachment of extreme emergency, Sebastian noted she did not heave with the breath of exertion. She moved mechanically, almost as though her body was an object through which she, a separate entity, enacted a higher will. She was not careless with the tool, though neither did she concern herself with the injuries sustained in her objectives. One wing hung in tatters, even as she stumbled aside from another strike. 

“Help her.” Sebastian implored Troius, who had regained his feet, “Unless you think you can manage alone.” 

The painted runes across Troius’ skin glowed, but when they met the bite wounds and ragged flesh, they flickered and died like spent candles. 

“That was my casting arm, runt.” 

Sebastian checked the pistol’s compartments, risking a third misadventure as she primed the shot, but it was far too difficult to get off an accurate bead without shooting Sascha - and Sebastian had no idea if silver was harmful to vampires. 

Thus far, Sascha had avoided being borne to the ground, in large part due to agility and tactical distancing, but she was beginning to tire, almost as if the blood itself was vitality seeping out from her to water the earth, instead. Troius’ animated oak was still active, and it waded into the fray clubbing at the stronger of the two wolves, giving Sascha a valuable break to focus fully on offense, instead of merely defending and evasion. 

Capitalizing on the opportunity, she ripped the throat from the weaker of the pair, and fell across her victim, drinking greedily. 

“Oh.” Troius observed, nursing his arm as he backed toward the carriage, “Now we may need to fight her, as well.” 

“Why?” Sebastian’s voice cracked at the potential of a fresh outrage to science and rationalism, “Will she turn into a werewolf, now?” 

Sascha made a sound that no animal in Sebastian’s mental bestiary could compete with and charged the other wolf, savaging them with blows like a thing possessed, until she had all but dismembered them and was inflicting damage on the oak, as well. She fell against the tree, motionless save for the trembling of her ribboned wings. 

“Don’t get near her.” Troius warned, “Werewolf blood can frenzy our kind - to say nothing of fighting for our lives, being wounded, losing blood. Her Beast is _very_ likely to have taken over.” 

“Beast?” Sebastian repeated, thinking Sascha looked very much like a beast as it was, but Troius didn’t answer, limping instead to the carriage and helping Cohn out. 

Sascha collapsed and lay completely motionless. Sebastian looked from the Tremere on the carriage to the fallen Tzimisce, whose outstretched wing put her in the mind of a dead sparrow once seen in childhood, and never forgotten. 

She made her way to their prisoner, despite the warnings, kneeling down in the dirt beside her. “Sascha.” 

Sascha opened one eye, otherwise utterly still. 

“Thank you.” 

The Tzimisce’s muscles relaxed, and the strange flesh additions flowed, and ebbed away, leaving the thin frame prone in her own blood. She had gone from fury to total tranquility in a few moments, and somehow Sebastian didn’t think it was her gratitude that had accomplished it. 

Behind her, Cohn was apologizing profusely to the Magister for failing to come to his aid, and he sounded as though he understood, now that the heat of battle had passed with no serious consequences. Together they worked on righting the carriage and evaluating the fitness of the horses, while Sebastian sat by Vykos and tried not to feel useless. 

“What do you need?” 

Sascha did not appear to understand the thrust of the question, or perhaps it was the consideration that was alien to her. “Time.” 

“You can reknit your bones in the carriage.” Troius called, “We are moving on.” 

“Are the horses hurt?” Sebastian reached under Sascha to lift her, finding her impossibly light, for a person who had minutes ago manifested four hundred pounds of corded muscle. 

Troius’ expression indicated he was no horse expert, “How can I tell until we get going?” It was a legitimate question, or seemed to be. 

Sebastian climbed up into the carriage, setting Sasha down against the bench, and turned back to the Tremere, who was still nursing his limp arm close to himself. “Let me look. Unless you have healing blood magic.”

“Only for myself.” Troius remarked, “And it isn’t called magic. It’s thaumaturgy.” 

Sebastian let that go without an answer, rounding the carriage to check on the horses. She didn’t have a great deal of experience with fixing injuries, but she could tell a broken leg, lameness, or a cracked pelvis from physical inspection. There was troubling shyness from the second horse she inspected, but it was not the kind of injury she could diagnose easily or convince Troius was worthy of delay. She climbed back into the carriage as he started off again, more quickly, this time. 

The young officer spent the remainder of the trip watching Sascha, who slept - or feigned sleep, more likely - and only breathed easily when they had left the forest proper. It was only an hour until sunrise when they arrived at the neoclassical palace of Hardestadt in Brussels, and Sebastian was relieved to enter the comparative safety of the gated grounds. 

At least until a dozen soldiers surrounded the carriage, training their weapons on the occupants.


	7. Chapter 7

The armed guard that met the party inside the gates was, according to Cohn, “Likely a formality.” The diplomatic Tremere's cup of blood remained half full in all affairs of state. 

Hardestadt himself was nowhere in evidence, but the soldiers, all with curious golden eyes, escorted the party inside, including Sascha, who was barely able to walk and leaned heavily on Sebastian for support. Sascha’s injured state made the soldiers’ weaponry seem ludicrous, and irritation rolled over in Sebastian’s stomach, formality or not. 

“We did have to fight for our lives to get here.” Sebastian told one of them, curtly, “If you would be so kind as to announce our presence and give us somewhere in this building to rest for the day.”

After a brief consultation between the soldiers, who Troius derisively identified as ghouls, the quartet was escorted through a long hallway, windows eclipsed with curtains and more guards posted by every door. Both the Tremere were perturbed. Sascha, as Sebastian had come to expect, was not. She fished the ring out from under her clothes so it sat prominently on her chest, and also kept a hand in her pocket for the letter. If she had a chance to meet this Hardestadt, she would likely only get one opportunity to impress anything upon him, and she wanted it to be well spent.

But, rather than send for them, Hardestadt made no appearance. Troius paced the small, windowless room they’d all been offered, Cohn tried (and failed) to engage their guard in conversation, and Sascha turned restlessly on a méridienne, perpetually unable to find sleep. Her wounds healed sufficiently that she could walk, though there was nowhere to walk _to._

Finally, several hours into the day, a servant ghoul arrived with blood for Troius, making no apologies or explanations for the wait, and left without further ceremony. Sebastian wondered if there might be a good reason, but didn’t wish to commit fully to Cohn’s line of thought, and excuse the Ventrue... 

If Sascha was such an important prisoner, he ought to prioritize the exchange situation with the Sabbat, surely? 

She was uncomfortable sleeping in those circumstances, but had to catch a few dark and dreamless hours, waking with a hand half-consciously clutched at Lynn’s ring like a protective talisman. There were rules, procedure, there was honor. Pieterzoon, Julia, Lynn all seemed to believe it. The Prince believed it. She hoped Lynn’s auspices did extend here, in light of the stress of the forest and their reception. 

Then an African woman, incredibly short of stature and dressed in an iridescent purple-and-green suit - shot silk, Sebastian supposed - entered the room and beckoned to Sascha without fear.

“Come with me.” 

“Excuse me.” Sebastian let the light hit the ring around her neck as she drew the letter from her person, “I have an important message from Jan Pieterzoon to be delivered to Hardestat.” 

The woman’s teeth hinted to Sebastian that she was Kindred, and her demeanor was one of curiosity. Clearly unaccustomed to things deviating from rehearsal, she took a few moments to ponder. 

“May I take it to him?”

“I would prefer to do so personally.” Sebastian held her ground, hoping she had not made an error in revealing the letter that could be confiscated. If she could only see this man in person!

She wasn’t stymied for long. “Indeed. Follow me, then.” To the Tremere, she made a cordial, but unemotional apology that they would need to be patient a little while longer. Troius appeared subdued, focused on his casting arm, and did not protest to be left behind, though Cohn looked - as Sebastian - fairly eager to speak to their host. Or jailer.

The new Kindred’s accent had been hard for Sebastian to place at first, but judged her as American, possibly soft Canadian - she spoke French seamlessly, however. Sebastian had never been involved in Napoleon’s African campaigns, and she had a momentary confusion about the origin of this vampire as a human, inclined to curiosity of her own, but curbed her questioning to that end, asking instead, “What was your name?” 

“Ms. Vick. I am Ventrue.” The clan distinction seemed to be as important to her as her name, though Sebastian could obviously not respond in kind.

“Sebastian LaChance.” She offered. “I have met many Ventrue. I hope we can resolve this peacefully...” 

It was an attempt to incite conversation, but Vick made only a sound of acknowledgment, and did not initiate further - not quite as friendly as Jan? Or more preoccupied, perhaps.

Sascha likewise said nothing. Vick led them both to a marbled and polished reception room with half a dozen chandeliers, a polished golden ceiling, and a bust of a severe looking middle aged man who was no one Sebastian recognized. Then she briefly disappeared into a back room, having low conversation, and re-emerged to stand by the doorway. 

“Go in.” 

Inside, the same man whose bust adorned the reception hall sat at the end of a long table. It was an empty room save for him, and there were chairs for at least a dozen people, some askew, as if a meeting had ended rather recently. Sascha leaned on the chair at the end of the table, and for a moment the seated Ventrue and the standing Tzimisce evaluated one another in silence.

Hardestadt was the first to speak. 

“Ms. Sascha Vykos. Is that still your name? It’s been a very long time.” 

“It is. Not so long.” Sascha returned, “You look well.” 

“I am very well.” 

Trying to get a measure of this man was difficult. He looked very much as did his bust, both in likeness and the carved expression of resting solemnity. His teeth were prominent - unlike Lynn, he displayed them very openly, and they were quite a bit thicker than hers. He also seemed to know Sascha personally. Perhaps this Camarilla and Sabbat war was closer to a civil disagreement than a war between nations...? 

Hardestadt’s cat-eyed glance to Sebastian was brief, but she advantaged herself of it by getting out the letter. 

“If I might interrupt. Sir.” She moved down the table to offer the letter, and the Ventrue unclasped his hands to take it. He took note of the seal and set it aside without opening it, and then looked back at Sebastian expectantly.

“I was - staying at the Baroness d’Olmen’s manor,” Sebastian felt compelled to answer for herself, a dozen unspoken questions in the depth of those eyes, but she did not lose herself in them the way she had in Jan’s. 

“I know.” Hardestadt answered, “The Nosferatu keep me well informed on Masquerade matters, even with this ongoing crisis.” 

Sebastian wasn’t sure what ‘the crisis’ was, but suspected it wasn’t the Tremere-Toreador boundary dispute, or Waterloo, or even the enigmatic Tzimisce still leaning on the chair as the world’s most casual prisoner of war. It might have had to do with the armed guard that met them, the delay in their audience with him, and the disarray of chairs, but he wasn’t forthcoming. 

“Is there something I can do to be of help?” Sebastian asked, in lieu of digging for intel where she might not be wanted. 

The granite expression gave her nothing, but his voice was a fraction warmer. This close, she could see his eyes track the ring, though he was not close enough to make out the insignia, he must have put two and two together. “Take a seat.” 

Sebastian complied, looking to see if Sascha also did so, but she remained standing. 

“Now, then, Ms. Vykos.” Hardestadt, with some reluctance, got down to business. “Where is the real Anneke van Dijk? I very much hope that she is still among the unliving.”

Sascha was casual. “She was not expendable. Or much difficulty to capture, interrogate, and imitate. Your Childe perceived a minor difference in us, and I could not escape quickly enough.”

Hardestadt opened his mouth, his fangs showing even more prominently so close to Sebastian, and then gathered himself again with poise that struck deep to her soul with longing. She wanted that composure like she wanted _oxygen_ , the way his surface mien merely rippled with new information, and any passion under the surface moved on its merry way, full fathomed and undisturbed. She had been in his presence for five minutes, and it was far too early to judge him as a whole, but his control was admirable. 

“Pieterzoon is very sharp,” Hardestadt agreed, then disagreed, “However. You are sharper. I can’t think you engineered a werewolf attack - that is what you were injured by, I suppose? - but there are other ways to gain an audience with me than being intentionally captured in an Elysium meeting by Tremere.” 

Sascha leaned over the chair. “No ways that the Sabbat would see kindly. This ensures me more privacy, and a hero’s welcome when I am returned.” 

Sebastian coughed. Neither occupant looked at her, they had eyes only for one another, and - while not at all fond - she detected they had a mutual admiration, if only for how dangerous predators might regard one another. A respect of territory, of prowess, of speed and intellect, because to do otherwise might incur injuries too expensive to walk off.

“Your Childe is also satisfactory.” Sascha added. “I would deal with them in the future. They appreciates the Tzimisce.” 

“So you were also feeling Jan out. I won’t ask crass questions. What they do in their personal time is their own business, so long as it does not _interfere_ with business. How many of the Camarilla Princes of Europe have you - dealt with?” 

It had undertones, at the end, that ‘dealt’ was not the verb he wanted. 

“Many.” Sascha seemed to gain strength the longer she stood there, though she had not actually slept in any way Sebastian had observed for several days now. “I am nothing if not considerate. Do I have your permission to give you an offer?” 

“Certainly.” Hardestadt inclined his head. 

Sascha lifted one hand, in the manner of a stage performer preparing to show a trick, and fashioned a talon from her forefinger, opening her own chest with a casual gesture, like opening a backpack. The skin parted and she registered no pain, flaying to muscle and bone beneath, revealing two hearts sluggishly beating out of sync, and a small intestinal cavity fashioned for this very purpose, storing a leather bag that she drew dripping with intestinal fluid and dropped to the table in front of him. 

Hardestadt closed his eyes, and then took the bag and opened it. A long necklace spilled out, carved bone beads interspersed with long teeth, and an intricate key dangling where a crucifix would be in a traditional rosary. 

His eyes moved up to Sascha’s face, framed above his small spectacles. “What is it?”

The current of his voice was riptide-strong, and even without being the focus of inquiry, Sebastian felt that tug. Magnificent. 

“It’s yours to keep.” Sascha returned, and Hardestadt gathered up the necklace and pooled it into his pocket, accepting the pointed lack of further explanation, for the moment. He opened the letter from his Childe, scanning the pages, and then called in Diana Vick, exchanging a few words with her in quiet murmurs. She dared to get close to him, Sebastian noticed, though not so close that it could be construed as romantic, or careless. But nearer than the room’s layout required. Almost as if she was concerned for him in some way.

Diana exited again without looking to Sascha or Sebastian, and a cat-eyed ghoul sidled in past her as she was leaving to bring food to Sebastian. No blood for Sascha, who watched Sebastian eat without jealousy, and again - while ravenous - Sebastian was loathe to display poor manners before Hardestadt. _His_ golden glance missed little.

He tapped the paper from Jan, addressing Sascha again. “Jan informs me of your interest in the Triumphal Quadriga that changed hands in the recent destabilization. The Emperor of Austria is an honorable man, and has no love for Napoleon, or for European radicalism. It would be a simple matter for me to convince the kine to repatriate the stolen horses... Where are they now, do you know?”

Sascha was so prompt as to betray eagerness. “The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.”

“Mmm.” Hardestadt had the manner of a man for whom all things, in time, were surmountable. For a short while the only sound was Sebastian’s muted fork and knife clinking, and even that, she was attempting to keep at a minimum. 

Hardestadt seemed to reach a decision, picking up the letter. “I’ll see if Jan can manage it alone - they are scraping a century in age, they could certainly use the practice. And it goes without saying that I don’t know anything about this.” He burned the letter in a nearby candle flame, dropping the remains on the plate before him, “Diana? Will you take Sascha to another room to wait, please. And arrange for one of the medical caitiff to attend to the Magister.” 

This accomplished, Sebastian stood up, automatically assuming she would follow Sascha.

“I have not dismissed you.” 

Military in heart and soul, Sebastian sat again. “Sir.” 

The Ventrue indicated she should finish her food, waiting. While Lynn’s manner had been that of a patient jungle cat, Hardestadt’s was glacial, many magnitudes less comprehensible. He barely moved at all, but when she had finished, became animated with a smooth gesture to the ring. 

“That is the Baroness de la Croix d'Olmen’s signet; it is around your neck, the position of a protected interest - you are owed the courtesy of one of her Childer so long as you wear it.” 

For the first time, Sebastian noticed a thick ring on the index finger of Hardestadt’s left hand, and her glance must have been obvious - or the Ventrue’s equal scrutiny of her precise - because he lifted the hand out to her for inspection. The ring was a heavy cast gold, with a carnelian intaglio of some kind of bird surrounded by chicks. Reluctant to admit ignorance, but honest, she shook her head just slightly. 

“It is a pelican vulning. In legend, when resources are scarce, a mother will stab her own breast and give her lifeblood to her brood. It was the signet ring of my sire, although the carnelian is relatively new, the carving is identical. A Malkavian artist made the original, centuries ago... and this one, too.”

“A Malkavian?” Sebastian repeated, unable to take her eyes from the ring, but when she did, she met Hardestadt’s, and held that gaze with a strange energy that galvanized her from the fatigue of the journey. 

“One of the more interesting clans.” He drew back, “For now, consider yourself an honored guest on the strength of the Baroness’ loyalty to the Camarilla. And, I will also say, your defense against the Garou curries further favor in my house. We can always do with thinning their numbers.” 

“The Garou - the werewolves,” Sebastian confirmed, and then looked aside at the entry of half a dozen individuals, including Diana - she could not tell at a glance, but assumed the rest also to be Kindred, casting a confirming glance to her host that she should sit again. After what was said about the ring around her neck, and the reminder of Julia’s comment - _You know as well as I do that's not for ghouls._ Perhaps ghouls were protected by their very status from flippant attack? 

But then, if Kindred were to flippantly attack humans on a regular basis, surely they could not maintain this degree of secrecy. All but the lowest of the human race had kin to miss them. Too many disappearances, and--

“This Gerousia of Brussels, 1815, will come to order, Praetor Hardestadt hosting. Philip van Vermeer the Fourth, Aedile presiding. Ms. Vick, Questor and local magistrate.”

A slim, white haired androgynous youth - but who knew precisely how old any of them were? - bowed respectfully to the rest of the table. They had an air of brusque professionalism, and although their eyes swept past Sebastian, they seemed neither surprised nor offended to count a human among the party’s number. 

“I believe everyone here has met, except for you.” van Vermeer’s French was extremely good, almost accentless, and their grip as they took Sebastian’s offered hand was characteristic of Kindred - firm but with the cold hint of poor circulation. 

“Sebastian,” Once again bewildered, meeting new people, trying hard to acclimate to shifting targets and wishing always to meet the challenge of the eyes upon her. Fortunately, she was not the subject of their scrutiny for long, and as the group settled with the odd squeak of chair legs, the discussion moved to economic pursuits. Very quickly, as van Vermeer began to go down the list, Sebastian realized the talk was not quite the same as what she would expect from a typical business meeting. 

“Murat is still in play somewhere in the Mediterranean. If we receive word, we will pass it along to the kine. He may resurface in an attempt to reclaim the Neapolitan throne, but the atmosphere is already sufficiently poisoned against him; if he does return, we believe he will be executed without us having to intervene. Meanwhile Boneaparte has officially abdicated. His son now rules in his place.”

Sebastian could not help but say, “His son is four years old.” 

Apparently, it was not a strange or rude thing to interject, as none of the Ventrue appeared ruffled by the comment. The speaker shuffled some pages, with a glance at Sebastian, and added, “We don’t expect this to last. Wellington has already captured Péronne. Likely, the kine will make another attempt at monarchical rule in France, so we will be able to move more freely there once things have settled.” 

Sebastian welcomed the news, not because she thought Wellington so noble, but because she didn’t actually know what had happened during her several days’ in between the Baroness’ estate, traveling to Brussels, and this particular meeting. 

“What will likely happen is that Napoleon will be induced to a second exile. The former king will return, and France will stabilize, back to the status quo of pre-Revolution times, I should think. But there are already shockwaves throughout Europe. The Dutch are bleeding colonies to England, as we know, the tensions between the local Tremere and Toreador are managed by your Childe, but some in the Ventrue are not fully satisfied with them.” 

“I see.” Hardestadt folded his hands. “Jan is young to be a Lictor. I understand the hesitation to endorse them, even with their lineage. Therefore, I propose an anonymous vote by cista. If even a single Ventrue present objects to Jan Pieterzoon’s current status, on the basis of their age, their competence, or some other perceived failing, then they will be sent up for a performance review and demoted if found wanting.” 

Sebastian watched with interest as the present Ventrue murmured quietly among themselves, and then an oak box was presented, with two slits in the top, not unlike a church money-box. Each Ventrue withdrew, and displayed, a small metal coin each. Hardestadt was among these, and, as Sebastian was closest to him, she could see his most clearly - imprinted with an ankh. Sebastian wondered at the sharp dagger’s tip of the symbol, and at the glimpses of the other Kindreds’ coins, as each in turn put their hand over the two slots and deposited the coin into one side. It was impossible to tell which, and even the sound of the coins was muffled, likely by fabric inside the box. When Hardestadt’s turn came, he pressed his own coin into the box.

“The cista is full. The tabellae will now be counted, before all witnesses.” 

He opened the cista, turning it to reveal its contents to the table. All coins, bar one, were present on the right hand side of the box’s two dividing compartments. 

Hardestadt observed, “There are seven votes in favor of Jan Pieterzoon’s position, and one vote against.” 

The table erupted in even more fearsome and worried murmurs, as apparently no one would dare to vote against Hardestadt’s Childe, and Sebastian detected an atmosphere of consternation and embarrassment. 

Hardestadt tipped the cista, and then closed it, pushing it toward Diana, who took it from him and then returned to retrieve one of the coins. Conversation around the table moved uneasily on to other matters, and while Sebastian tried to follow them, much of the discussion centered on foreign economic policy, esoteric words with which she was not familiar, and the ramifications of the negotiations going on in Vienna. In time, the meeting concluded, with only the shadow of embarrassment remaining over Jan Pieterzoon’s disciplinary action - something Sebastian was still not completely aware of, either, but she found she was sorry to see the Ventrue disperse.

“I enjoyed that.” She remarked to Hardestadt, standing cautiously, “Thank you for allowing me to sit in.” 

“No thanks are necessary, but consider the favor of bringing the letter to me repaid.” Hardestadt returned, “Diana, show our guest to the same quarters Sascha is staying in.” 

Sebastian had an odd feeling she was being instructed, even then, about the nature of favors in this society. She glanced back once before exiting, and caught Hardestadt’s eyes again, feeling that surge of admiration redouble. At that moment, she was determined to become a vampire.


	8. Chapter 8

Diana was less a host than a disinterested guide, indicating to Sebastian that she had the run of the entire hallway and kitchen, but should ask for permission before exiting the building. Diana had a short, murmured conversation with another of the Ventrue who had been at the meeting - the pale, tall van Vermeer. Sebastian avoided making eye contact as she entered the guest room, within which Sascha Vykos was nominally imprisoned.

“You haven’t slept since the first night you were captured.” Sebastian observed, “You wouldn’t trust me to keep watch over you, would you?”

“It isn’t about trust.” Sascha had a way of staring like an unmoving corpse at whatever had last held her attention, and Sebastian found herself staring back, remembering the forest, and the way Sascha’s body behaved like a strung puppet to a higher extension of herself. “I can rest only in the soil of my homeland. And I would not need sleep at all were it not for the sun and for the ease of healing.”

Sebastian frowned at her. “Prince Hardestadt didn’t give you blood.” 

“He is not a Prince.” Sascha’s corrections had the patience of a clock, with no hint that Sebastian’s mistakes were unwelcome, “He is a Ventrue of the Inner Circle, and one of the founders of the Camarilla.” 

No wonder, then, that Hardestadt had so much poise and self possession. She tried to keep the positive emotion from being too blatant on her face, to no purpose: heedless of her feelings, Sascha continued. 

“He doesn’t want me to repair myself while I’m too close to his person. I am older and more dangerous than he, and we are established enemies.” 

Sebastian’s eyebrows climbed. “Is that so. Strange he didn’t simply have you executed, then.” 

Sascha said nothing, and the silence between them concerned the soldier overmuch, as if at last she’d found something to test Sascha’s patience, but then, as if working out the answer for herself as well as Sebastian, Sascha said, “We are often too old to be so wasteful.” 

“Would you -...” Sebastian wasn’t quite sure if she she should offer, or if she was making another mistake. “Would you like to drink from me, Sascha?” 

The Tzimisce blinked. Somehow, from everything she’d done before, it felt like the greatest slip of her poker face, and made Sebastian reflect on how differently-similar she was from Hardestadt. Both were reserved, but Sascha felt like a jungle cat, mild by virtue of her environmental superiority, and Hardestadt felt like a mighty ship of the line, making micro-adjustments to push against a current most would find overpowering. 

“Why would you offer your blood?” She boosted herself onto one arm, “Do you want to know how it feels?” 

“Mainly because you were injured protecting us. You work with the Camarilla when it benefits you, and your people seem very interested in the repaying of debts.” Sebastian was steady, “And because you may be required again to protect me from some future threat, so it would be wise of me to see you in good health.” 

“Now _that_ is about trust.” Sascha mindfully tapped her chin, “Then give me your wrist.” 

Sebastian shrugged off her shirt, noticing for the first time that it was extremely ragged. There hadn’t been much room for the priority of appearances, and Hardestadt hadn’t shamed her for presenting herself this way. The ring was cold against her skin as she held out her arm to Sascha, and felt the equally cold, almost marble-like fingers steady her with care. 

Sascha didn’t bite right away - her lips pressed to the offered flesh of Sebastian’s wrist, and then drew her arm closer, the better to bite into the cephalic vein. Sascha was so precise and smooth that Sebastian felt nothing at all - not the pain of puncture, and she only realized Sascha had bitten at all by the two droplets dribbling down her elbow. 

Then the euphoria hit her like a rush, and she realized it must have been chemical, some kind of drug in Kindred spittle, perhaps. It lit up her spine with pleasure, and she closed her eyes to better focus on it. She had the satisfaction of hearing Sascha sigh, lick, and draw away from her, and it didn’t even feel as though she’d taken all that much. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but Sebastian felt reinvigorated, stronger than before. 

“Oh.” Sascha had noticed the bandages on her chest, where the bullet had - a lifetime ago - struck her, and grazed her dead fingers across the fabric. “These should be changed.” 

Sebastian was about to explain that it was difficult to do herself, but Sascha was already running talons down Hardestadt’s expensive daka sheets, savaging the finery for practical purpose.

“Hardestadt may be upset,” Sebastian was too late to effect any change, and Sascha didn’t even pause.

“I will tell him he was remiss not to provide medical supplies...” She looped the fabric around Sebastian’s chest, taking care not to bind it too tightly. “If any ‘Kindred’ offers you blood to heal this, refuse them. No one of them will give you blood for an unselfish reason.” 

“I think you may be biased, and understandably so; they are your enemies.” Sebastian was as gentle as Sascha’s hands around her waist. 

“To be biased is not to be wrong.” The Tzimisce looked up at her face, “The Tremere, especially...”

Sebastian touched her hands. “I know you hate them. I understand. I only wish I could do more to facilitate peace. Your people have so many traits that I admire.” 

From Lynn’s kindness, to Hardestadt’s emotional control, to Sascha’s obvious self love and defiant grace in a position of powerlessness. These glimpses of this other world were intoxicating, and she wanted to learn how every cog in the mechanism moved, to become a part of this intricate dance. 

Sascha closed her eyes, as if conceding defeat to an invisible enemy - and one that often bested her. Then she looked off to one side, removing her hands from Sebastian’s body with great reluctance. 

Sascha seemed about to say something else, elfin, tired, still healing and frail, but somehow a font of strength churning beneath her eyes. More than a simple extension of sentience, Sebastian could believe Sascha had taken this new form as a tool, meticulously crafting it into a weapon of high artistic beauty. Again, the memory of her motions in the forest - as a puppeteer of her own body, a higher spirit - came back to Sebastian, and she toyed with changing the subject before the silence grew too great.

“Sascha,” 

But the door opened quietly, and Sebastian was not comfortable enough to ask in front of one of the Camarilla vampires. It was Ms. Vick, with an explanation of meal and rest times more suited to the Kindred than the kine, and a careful, renewed warning not to leave. For a moment, that additional, underlined rule flagged Sebastian’s interest, something anachronistic... 

Then the interest was gone again and she chased worthier prey. “May I ask you about the cista vote?” At Vick’s nod, she continued, “What will happen to Pieterzoon, if demoted?” 

Ms. Vick didn’t make herself comfortable; she looked as though she had other tasks, but answered, “They will lose a small amount of dignitas - or a large amount, if they object to the wisdom of the demotion.” 

“Dignitas?” Sebastian repeated. 

“A Ventrue’s good name. Their honor, their achievements. And their legacy, when they meet Final Death.” Vick made a careless gesture, “It is what we care for most, as a clan. If Jan is demoted, it will be because they was unready to be made a Lictor. They should face such a decision with patience and understanding, as it is not a personal insult.” 

“Indeed.” Sebastian did not observe that the vote against Jan was reacted to, by the assembly, as if it were a personal insult to Hardestadt. He had maintained his composure. “So Jan would lose a lot of their ability to ... facilitate, decisions for the clan?” She pressed closer to the artery of her aim, and felt Sascha out of the corner of her eye shifting in alarm.

Yes, she understood. Those horse statues she so coveted, and whatever mystic power they held, stood to be, possibly, delayed or lost to her completely, if Jan was found wanting.

“Not for Clan Ventrue. A Lictor is still many ranks away from having far-reaching influence,” For the first time, real amusement lit Diana’s face, and she looked as though she had the potential to be as sweet as she had been stern. “But a setback, yes, to be restored to a Tribune. I have spoken to Jan, and I believe they wouldn’t stay demoted for long. I don’t know who voted against them, but I suspect a personal grudge was in play. Is that all, Ms. LaChance?” 

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Vick. That was more than sufficient.” Sebastian had not dared ask after Vick’s vote, but she had volunteered it anyway, assuming she was telling the truth. The Ventrue excused herself with a short bow, and Sebastian looked back at Sascha, who had climbed off the bed and was standing at the window overlooking the courtyard. There was an abbreviated balcony, and after a moment, Sascha opened the latch and stepped out. The cool air was extremely welcome to Sebastian, even half undressed as she was. 

“I think...” Sascha began, and then trailed away. She gripped the railing, “I am tired.” 

Sebastian knew instinctively it was not the insomnia of Sascha’s clan, but something ... she recognized nascent in herself. What Lynn had warned her of, when discussing feeding preferences. The exhaustion from this endless vigil, a fear and loathing of personal vulnerability. 

She approached, touching Sascha’s bare shoulder, “You must find it patronizing for me to tell you how to handle your enemies; you, a centuries old vampire.” 

“Not patronizing.” Sascha demurred, “But they have done things to me that you cannot imagine.” 

“The Camarilla?” The concern in Sebastian’s tone put paid to any immediate disbelief, which appeared to gratify the Tzimisce further. 

“No. Not the Camarilla, or Hardestadt.” Sascha slumped over the railing with dejection, “Ordinarily I would rest, and forget these thoughts for a time, but as I have said, the soil. I cannot.” 

“I will arrange it so that you can.” Sebastian was firm, “Stay here.” 

She exited the room before she could think better of it, determined to make this right for Vykos, and headed off down the hallway, passing mostly closed doors whose mysteries she did not care to explore. One of the rooms was open, and inside van Vermeer was playing cards with another of the Kindred who had been present at the meeting. Neither of them looked up, content to entertain themselves and clearly not meant to be any kind of guard for Sebastian or - more likely - Sascha.

She lifted a hand to knock at the chambers where Hardestadt had received them, and heard the sound of voices from within. Faltering a moment in her aim, which was not to eavesdrop, necessarily, she listened while trying to regather her courage. Interrupting Hardestadt while alone was very much less intimidating than interrupting him while he was busy.

Troius spoke from within, with a superficial level of respect barely masking impatience. “Once more, I ask you on behalf of Clan Tremere for custody of Vykos to be transferred to us. She is an enemy not only of the Camarilla but of all our Houses - too dangerous to be left alive.”

“And once more, I must refuse your request.” Hardestadt’s voice was even, “To the Sabbat, Sascha Vykos is more than a hostaged leader. She is symbolic of their struggle and beliefs from the very beginning, if not recognized as their sole founder, then their spiritual progenitor; she is worth much more to prisoner exchange than she would be removed from the Tremere’s list of enemies. She isn’t even Redlisted, nor has she ever been.”

“Not for lack of trying.” Troius’ response was so immediate as to have been impulsive, and was followed by, “I understand.” 

“And I understand that the Pyramid would hold you remiss if you did not ask.” Hardestadt continued, “I recognize that your passion comes from a good place. If you continue to act with initiative, Troius, I fully expect to meet you as Prince of a thriving domain.”

“--Thank you.” 

This was little surprise to Sebastian, though it was unusual to her that Troius did back down that quickly. So much of these Kindred interactions seemed to be the routine testing of defenses, feints, social ways and means that felt so tantalizingly close to being comprehensible... and no blood drawn, yet. She still pictured how Hardestadt and Sascha looked at one another, that riptide tension ceding into mutual understanding. 

Would that human leaders recognize the soldiers they wasted in the same way. 

She knocked, and after a moment, Hardestadt called, “Enter.” 

Expecting to see only Troius and Hardestadt, Sebastian’s steps into the room slowed at a greater gathering, several Kindred lit by candlelight who would qualify as monsters. One, in the corner closest to Hardestadt, had the long and dry hair of a corpse and a bony, bloodied pit in the center of his face where a nose would be. Another with characteristics somewhat similar to Vermulen, a goblin’s face sporting massive protruding fangs, covered in jewelry and with a missing pinkie on their left hand. 

The third who caught Sebastian’s initial scan, however, was by far the most impressive anatomically. They stood framed between two decorative columns, slim and human from the neck down - from above, their face was an angular plague mask made flesh, a great extended beak and wide, golden eyes with an oddly soft countenance. Meeting those eyes took Sebastian’s breath. 

“Sebastian.” Hardestadt’s voice anchored her, which was welcome - in the shadows thrown by candles, were there yet more of them? Were these three content to be seen? “These are representatives of the Nosferatu; their Primogen Benjamin Rose, the Elder Tiberius Libo, and Neonate Coch Rhi Ben, visiting from the Americas.” 

The latter, Sebastian dimly recognized from a nursery rhyme - _Cock Robin_ \- and let out a small involuntary bark of laughter which immediately mortified her. “I’m sorry,” She began at once, but the inhuman Nosferatu was already waving her to think nothing of it. 

“That is why I’m called that,” They assured, evidently as amused as she at the understood reference. Their accent was pleasing, a gentle American, distinguishable to Sebastian’s ear only by comparison to Diana Vick’s. 

A Neonate - from the word’s implications alone - she suspected not someone who was of particular age or experience. And yet, that alien face! So the Nosferatu were born, or reborn, as these new beings, and did not lose their human appearances over time. 

No introduction for Sebastian seemed to be necessary. _The Nosferatu keep me well informed..._ But how had Sebastian failed to notice any of them at the mansion? How had they avoided detection in the small spaces of the cellar? Were they waiting outside? Had they overheard Jan’s discussion? She remembered again the way Jan had impressed upon her that she must keep the secret, and felt mild concern that the Prince had in fact been informed by his own clanmates, but perhaps it didn’t matter, if the young Lictor was to lose their position... 

All of that and Troius, besides, sitting across from Hardestadt and mostly healed, looking as guarded as Sebastian had ever seen him. He had continually tried to _legally_ dispose of Sascha, though he had an opportunity in the forest to flee and hadn’t taken it, which earned him more respect in Sebastian’s admittedly limited estimation. 

“What did you need?” Hardestadt asked Sebastian, who became aware only when the Ventrue’s full scrutiny was upon her that she remained shirtless, and Hardestadt had the good grace not to ask if she was here to beg for clothing. 

“Sascha cannot sleep without the earth of her home.” Sebastian recovered with difficulty, “I wanted to provide it - to ask you to provide for her.” It would be some time before a casket of earth could be transported from anywhere short of France, and she understood, belatedly, that Sascha had not mentioned the location. 

“It has been arranged. Her resting clay will be provided by the Sabbat, when they make an initial contact to parlay for her recovery.” Hardestadt did not have the air of a man receiving new information. “The Camarilla and the Sabbat both do not torture high profile prisoners, Ms. LaChance.”

Sebastian shared a glance with Troius, who looked as though he had also not missed the implication. But then... Whoever had hurt Sascha had not been Hardestadt or the Camarilla, by her own admission. 

“Do the Camarilla torture prisoners of low value?” She asked, after a pregnant pause.

Hardestadt stared at her with such intense mindfulness that she was certain she had made a fatal error, and from the direction of Benjamin Rose came a stifled, low wheezing sound of barely tamed entertainment. 

“Not as a general rule.” Hardestadt said finally, “However, there is as much variation in leaders and time periods as there are for human nations. I cannot unequivocally say ‘no’ and ‘never’.” 

Sebastian still had vivid memories of the enemy soldiers on the battleground bayoneting fleeing French soldiers, who had themselves mistreated the vulnerable - she understood how these things could spiral and why it was advisable to take the high ground whenever possible. Hardestadt’s perspective continued to hold as logical for her. “I understand. Thank you. Have you heard from the Lictor?”

“My Childe is on their way. It will take a little longer if they avoid the forest, but that is a necessity now that the Garou are in turmoil, and grieving. They may be close to animals, but they feel for their own. We must be careful for the next few weeks.” 

“The wolves deserved worse.” Troius opined, and then stood. “Cohn and I should return to the Chantry, unless you have further need of us.” 

“Actually I do.” The Ventrue stood as well, “If you would be so kind.” 

The Tremere’s expression went forced-neutral, and then he conspicuously broke eye contact. “I am a faithful servant to Prince Vermulen. I’ll remain as long as I’m needed.” 

“Good.” Hardestadt indicated Benjamin. “I wonder if I might borrow your Mx. Rhi Ben for a short time to look after Sebastian.” 

Cock Robin’s head moved slightly, but they seemed as deferential to Benjamin Rose as the Ventrue at the meeting had been to Hardestadt himself, and when Benjamin agreed, the younger Nosferatu sidled around the table and stood beside her, fitting in as seamlessly as her own shadow. 

“Get Sebastian some new clothes.” Hardestadt suggested, “And keep an eye on Sascha.” 

“Yes sir.” Robin accepted the mission without the ripple of hesitation or defiance that Troius had, and as Sebastian exited, she found herself puzzled as to the true nature of her assigned companion. A bodyguard seemed like something she hadn’t earned, unless Lynn was the reason - and something she didn’t need, unless there were other forces threatening the mansion. The werewolves, perhaps? 

As a spy, Robin’s purpose was ruined by its own announcement, and if the Nosferatu ‘kept Hardestadt well-informed’, surely they did not need to be visible, any of them, in order to report back.

Holding over Troius when he clearly wanted to leave was also strange, and could perhaps have been an ill-advised flex of power, but Sebastian doubted it, and not solely because she liked (and _wanted_ to like) the Ventrue. 

As they walked to, presumably, retrieve new clothes for Sebastian, she mulled over questions, methods, and approaches. From the indirect but possibly misfired _Hardestadt is very popular_ to the much more overt _What is everyone so worried about?_

“Why is everyone at Hardestadt’s home tonight?” She asked directly, and Robin’s head ducked as if enduring immediate rebuke - from her, a mortal. This one was fairly young, indeed, she was quickly learning the younger ones seemed more human, seemed to still see her as close to an equal, in some cases. The older ones, like Hardestadt and Sascha, felt more like a species separate from herself, with concerns relative enough to be understood but also distant enough to be striking. 

“There are rumors.” Robin began, uneasily. “Hardestadt rescheduled the Gerousia, it was meant to be a month from now. He wants the Nosferatu, the Ventrue and the Tremere all here. But as a Nosferatu, I’m supposed to broker for information.” 

“What would you like to know in return?” Sebastian asked. 

“Well. Err.” Robin thought about it. The more they spoke, the more obvious it was that their voice had been trained painstakingly to emulate a human’s with a very inhuman trachea. The vowels were unusual, but still comprehensible to Sebastian after a short delay. “It’s not extremely valuable actually; it’s only a rumor... I heard you’ve been traveling with Sascha Vykos. What’s she like?” 

Sebastian considered the truth. It may well have been dangerous to speak too highly even to a fledgling about an enemy of the Camarilla. She entered one of the rooms at Robin’s instruction, and busied herself in the closet. There was a fine mix of modern clothing, for both traditional genders - she glanced back to see Robin was wearing a dark, silk cloak that brooded about their shoulders and, combined with their hawkish face, completed the impression of a skulking bird or medieval plague doctor.

“She’s very unusual.” Sebastian decided, picking out a brown silk taffeta skirt - plain, but it sent a pleasant thrill through her just to have the option to wear it. On the other hand, the way Jan had so smoothly respected her identification without the need for social cues like clothing, and she still did enjoy suits. Perhaps there was a way to maintain legitimacy without falling too hard in either direction of what was expected of her? 

Robin watched her idling at deciding without much impatience, looking to the door, and then back at her. “Do you want the skirt?” They asked, uncertainly. 

“I don’t know.” Sebastian admitted. “It feels - improper to discuss with you the finer points of acceptance among the Kindred. But I found Adelynn’s acceptance of an individual’s truth almost... intoxicating.” 

“Lynn is a kind woman.” Robin spoke with evident experience, “I can’t be around new people much; I scare them. I don’t like how that feels. But I don’t scare you...” 

“You have been civil.” Sebastian reflected on it, “Jan Pieterzoon’s intensity frightened me more than your face does, Rhi Ben.” 

She saw out of the corner of her eye, her companion’s shoulders relaxed from holding tension. This poor Nosferatu. Somehow she did not suspect that they had been turned with permission or any explanation of their lot. 

“Civility.” Robin repeated, the relief tinged with a kind of irony, “No wonder the Ventrue seem to like you.” 

Sebastian cleared her throat, loudly, folding up the skirt and setting it aside. No reason she couldn’t pick multiple outfits and wear this one later, she reasoned, while mulling over other things. Robin hadn’t confirmed or denied that some Kindred might find her gender exploration unacceptable. She supposed what each clan valued would vary, based on their highly selective process of personality-seeking - and members within that clan may themselves form splinter groups based on their own interests. 

They were all former humans, after all, even if some of them had moved on mentally from the concerns of humankind.

“Manners cost nothing at all, and can be found in any tier of society.” Sebastian said absently, packing away two additional outfits, and dressing in a plain linen shirt and buckskin breeches more suitable for hunting than for socializing, but it might be best to have hard-wearing clothes, if the last few nights were anything to judge by. Whose clothes were these? She had to wonder, given that Jan identified Hardestadt as their sire, if this wardrobe belonged to them. Rhi Ben had certainly come deliberately to a room, and not chosen one at random. 

She refocused on their conversation about Sascha, “I think perhaps it is easy to misjudge Vykos. She almost feels as though she wants to give a certain impression of distance, but if I had to lay money, I would say she cares very much about her society. Not unlike what I have seen of the Ventrue. Her reasons and decisions may be - wanting, in the eyes of the Camarilla, but that does not indicate she is less genuine.” 

Cock Robin let out a quiet trill, reminding Sebastian that their French was functionally a second language. She was about to comment, hearing the door latch and looking up to find Robin backing into a corner submissively at the approach of two Ventrue. 

She recognized van Vermeer, and the other who had not been named, at the Gerousia. She felt a good deal more confident just being in clean clothes, and at the thought that Sascha’s rest would be taken care of.

“There you are, Sebastian.” van Vermeer enthused, “I was looking for you. I wonder if you might want to play at dice with us.” 

Admittedly she did not need much time to think it over, finding the proposition both of companionship and of further information _intensely_ alluring. “Certainly. May Cock Robin accompany us?” 

The change in atmosphere was immediate, from warm and welcoming to confusion and slight discomfort. Van Vermeer’s companion made no secret of glancing aside at where Robin huddled with consternation. “The Nosferatu?” 

“I don’t see why not. Hazard is more fun with more players. Do you have any money, Nosferatu?”

“No.” Cock Robin sounded mortified.

Sebastian regretted the good-faith proposal at including them. She was struggling to figure out how to extricate, opening her mouth to suggest perhaps it wasn’t a good idea after all, but feigning a convincing excuse was complicated, time consuming, and while she was thinking, Van Vermeer dug in a pocket and produced several British crowns, offering them out. 

“Here. Money is only how we keep score, it doesn’t matter.”

Despite the offer, Cock Robin didn’t move, lost for what to do. 

Van Vermeer, to their credit, did not take the refusal as a personal slight, suggesting, “Perhaps anothe--” at which point Robin did convince themself to lurch forward and take the handful of coins. Up close to Sebastian and van Vermeer, the texture and structure of their face was even more pronounced. Sebastian - not to be contrary to Kindred mores - found it somewhat fascinating. She remembered the first time she’d seen a taxidermied crocodile at a naturalist’s exhibition, and how the skin was stretched tight over an alien armature underneath, so as to give the impression, rather than a familiar creature, of something otherworldly... 

“Please do play with us.” Sebastian urged softly, “Hardestadt asked you to accompany me, and I see no reason you should be bored as a sentry when you could be entertained as a friend. I will teach you the rules of Hazard, if you don’t know them.” 

Cock Robin appeared bolstered by that offer, though the opinion of kine in a society of Kindred likely did not carry much weight, and followed them along the hall to the room adjoining Sascha. For a dizzying moment, Sebastian contemplated inviting her as well, and it was only the thought that she had been many days sleep deprived that stopped her. If these Ventrue were so unused to socializing with the Kindred who brought them information and guarded them from harm, it could only be of benefit to suggest a - deepening of companionship. 

They sat at the table and played for a bit, with Sebastian explaining the gambling components and methodology of play, each time the bone dice clattered against the surface it calmed her further and brought her back to a happier, simple time waiting to be sent out with the other young officers. That there was a time before blood, carnage, and terror seemed almost ludicrous to her now, but these Kindred were without effort reminding her. Van Vermeer was quite good at the game, and although initially hesitant, Robin picked it up with growing enthusiasm. An hour passed companionably, and Sebastian learned a little bit more about these two Kindred, van Vermeer being more enthusiastic for sharing than their companion.

Van Vermeer was of a respectable generation, though they would not say which, and had been some time in the Kindred world - the age of these individuals did not appear to be linked to their generation, at least not directly. This Ventrue was also an Anarch, unlike their companion, whose name was Courtland Leighton. ‘Anarch’, like so many words, was new to Sebastian, and she gravitated toward an explanation of it with the same keen earnestness that had served her so well so far. 

“We’re a very important ... balancing act.” Van Vermeer picked up a carved die between two fingers. “Too much of the Camarilla unchecked is a kind of despotism that the kine endure, with the added authority of blood bonding. Too little, and that is the unchecked ferocity, the frenzy of the Sabbat.” 

“How little you know of the Sabbat.” Sascha leaned on the doorframe, lithe and proud despite her tiredness, “Evident that all you know of us, you were told by the Camarilla.” 

The dice dropped, and van Vermeer exchanged a worried look with their Ventrue ally. Cock Robin had _immediately_ vanished - to where, Sebastian couldn’t say, as she hadn’t seen them pass. She got up from the table and attended Sascha. 

“You should be trying to conserve your strength. I spoke to Hardestadt. He says there will be a transfer of the earth you need to sleep.”

“What concern.” van Vermeer noted, with pronounced unease, as Sascha’s arm went gratefully around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Really, Sebastian. This Tzimisce has lived centuries, I don’t think she needs your help.” 

Sebastian couldn’t readily explain the draw she had to Vykos, even to herself, and labored to justify it, but shook her head, the abortive defense sufficient. 

“I think we’re finished.” Courtland put the dice away, and Sebastian took the hint, metaphorically bellowed as it had been. She retreated to Sascha’s quarters with the Tzimisce.

Silence settled between them, for a time. Sascha was a quiet companion generally, but this was a brooding silence, punctuated by looks toward the window, covered now with heavy drapery in anticipation of the rising sun. All throughout the building, ghouls moved through the servants’ quarters to the various rooms, covering the windows meticulously. Daylight was a minimal concern to Sascha, though, it seemed she would put her negative energy on the fiery dawn rather than something more nebulously upsetting. 

“You don’t like the Anarchs.” Sebastian broached, willing to have a difficult conversation if it would help break her free of the mood. 

But she didn’t seem to want to unload any ire - about them, or about anything else. 

“I don’t see you as ferocious.” 

“Ahh, Sebastian of Milan. If I worried, I’d worry about your career.” Sascha folded her legs under herself, bracing as if for floodwaters against the encroachment of the daylight - she could _feel_ it, irrespective of any protective curtain, and it dragged her down to further exhaustion for every rotation that she did not rest. 

Sebastian smiled faintly at the nickname, something sardonic in her acceptance of it. 

“I’m no martyr. I just value the truth.” 

Black eyes. Curious, always curious, even borne down by fatigue. 

“What is the truth, Milan?” 

“I’ll let you know when I hear enough opinions.” Sebastian almost-teased. “For now, don’t fret over my discussions, my questions about others. Even if their explanations of your sect, or your clan, or yourself, are wildly inaccurate, I have still learned - if only learning who I should hesitate to believe about other things.” 

Sascha did not say that Sebastian had alienated herself willingly from those Ventrue for the sake of Sascha’s comfort - in front of a Nosferatu, no less. She did not say that Sebastian was in the mouth of the Camarilla, was kine, despite the ring around her neck, and was afforded only superficial protection, fully reliant on Ventrue honor. She said nothing of what she was thinking, or of the confusing, soft and compassionate creature before her after centuries of fear and pain and exploitation. 

She pulled herself closer to Sebastian, leaning on the human’s shoulder, listening to her heartbeat, and feeling the touch of her skin, and the blood that warmed it. 

“The lion who spared the mouse, only to be later rescued by it?” Sascha whispered, into her ear. She felt the nod, and continued, “In the original fable, the lion was hunting man for his cruelty.” 

“When was this?” Sebastian had not heard that variant.

“Oh, I don’t know. 20 or 30 BC. I wasn’t there.” 

Sebastian chuckled, quietly. “So I am the mouse?” 

“Yes, Milan. You are the mouse.” 

She still could not sleep, but Sebastian imagined she rested more easily there.


	9. Chapter 9

When the sun went down again, Sebastian came awake, as if she was already primed to accept a reality in which the daylight hours were unimportant to her. Everything she had as a mortal, she had left behind on the bloodied fields near Plancenoit. She hadn’t wandered the halls long when Cock Robin unfolded themself from a shadow on the wall nearby, following her. 

“Is there some way you could announce yourself?” Sebastian asked, when the adrenaline surge had faded and she trusted herself to speak. “It isn’t how you look. I don’t - like to be surprised.”

“I’m sorry.” Robin bowed their head, appearing genuinely contrite. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you after-...” 

Sascha had frightened them, or perhaps the idea of conflict with the Ventrue had done so. In either event, Sebastian did regret the invite anew. She was naive - one couldn’t force together a grouping of individuals whose society had enforced mores against it. The Nosferatu and Ventrue clans in this circumstance reminded Sebastian of the recent British trouble in so-called ‘Ceylon’, and how it could never be considered easy to mediate disputes where one side had an advantage, or a history of abuse. _Was_ there a history of abuse with the Nosferatu and the Ventrue? 

She wanted to ask, for some reason finding it a very troubling prospect - just as it would be to learn Sascha had been hurt by Hardestadt. Perhaps there was a better way to go about data gathering than simply asking. 

“The rumor.” She said instead. 

“Yes.” Cock Robin straightened with a few audible cracks, then promptly went back down to a more comfortable forward posture. “I heard the young Ventrue, Vick, talking about a letter Hardestadt received. The Congress of Vienna - Do you know Lord Castlereagh?”

“Not personally.” Sebastian was amused, picking her way down the stairs and into the cool night. It was stifling in the building; Sascha was somewhere inside, either monitored or trusted to be alone by Hardestadt. That, by itself, was an impressive display of power. “But I do know he was instrumental in the defeat of Napoleon.”

“You bear him no ill will?” Once outside, Robin retreated to the shelter of an overhanging tree, and Sebastian indulged them by sitting herself at its base, the better to discuss.

“Not at all. French patriotism seems almost like a farce, now that I know about your people. You fight for the fate of the entire world, kine and kindred alike. There are meaningful stakes. Emperor Bonaparte, for all his nobility, was little more than a wartime looter seeking to expand territory.” 

Robin was silent for several seconds, then admitted, “Some of us do. Some of us are good.” 

“I suppose no organization has a flawless track record...” Sebastian navigated awkwardly back. But she wanted it to be so. 

“Anyway. Castlereagh’s negotiations at the Congress of Vienna.” Cock Robin picked up, “He’s a human diplomat. But there’s already fallout from the puppet ruler that Napoleon established in Naples...” 

“Murat.” Sebastian realized, the Ventrue had also been discussing Murat and his disappearance. 

Cock Robin was quiet, letting her absorb the potential implications. Then, they explained, “Whatever happens in the human sphere has ramifications for us too. Whether it’s a cover we can move our own activities through, or whether it makes it harder for us to act in a certain territory until they’ve calmed down. Sometimes we need mass clan evacuations.” 

“I see.” Sebastian opined, “That sounds stressful.” 

Robin rolled their shoulders. “So. Hardestadt got a death threat. If he doesn’t shut down the Congress - and I’m not sure how he’d manage that even if he wanted to, but I’d not say it to his face - he can expect a siege.” 

Sebastian stared off into the peaceful night, the crickets chirping, the hot, close air stifling. A siege seemed almost laughable, though there were those ghouls, and if Hardestadt was moving dates and holding the Tremere off from leaving, there might be something to it. She felt that, with everything else, it might be best to consider it a possibility. “Was it signed?” 

“Not that I understand. I didn’t see it.” Robin let out a quiet sound as something moved in the dark, getting ready to disappear, but holding off - Sebastian couldn’t blame them. The talk alone made her jumpy.

“...Hello, there.” 

By the well-lit lanterns in the courtyard, a yearling horse had apparently escaped, or by some other means freed itself from the stables. It was not one of Lynn’s, recouperating now from the werewolf ordeal. This was a very recognizably Arabian horse, and as Sebastian got up to approach, he startled back. Anxious, then? 

Arab horses had good temperaments, usually, although they were clever and - through misuse of that intelligence - could be wickedly behaved, they very rarely responded to stress with violence, and instead showed nervousness. 

“Robin, can you --tame him?” Sebastian asked, remembering how Nikolaus had charmed the horses so effortlessly. 

“I might be able to.” Robin reached up, making a quiet hum in the back of their throat. The yearling stumbled a bit, ears flicking, and blowed softly before drawing close to Robin and burying his face in their robes. The Nosferatu stroked him earnestly, looking to Sebastian, who was evidently impressed.

“Can all the people of your clan control animals like this?” Sebastian asked.

Robin shook their head. “Not control. Communication.”

“Can it be taught?” 

The Nosferatu looked toward her, blinking. “Yes, but it’s in the blood. Ghouls can learn these things too. Are you not a ghoul yet?” 

Sebastian shook her head, venturing in the direction of the stables. “Still learning. We should return this little one.” 

Horses, generally, compelled her thoughts to tick over to Sascha, and her horse statues still outstanding. Then they jumped back with equal, worried enthusiasm to the threat of siege. Surely Hardestadt earned plenty of death threats, operating at high rank in a secret society, presumably for centuries. She and Robin led the little Arabian back to the stables, and she had a quiet word with the night guard about finding the horse wandering. There was sufficient gratitude, as the horse was an expensive favorite of Hardestadt’s, and Sebastian wasn’t sure if the night guard was aware of what Hardestadt was, or not. Certainly Robin vanished whenever anyone else came near, but that might just be their personal preference.

Sebastian left feeling more accomplished, and sought out the Tremere. Cohn and Troius were not difficult to find; there was a large fountain at the other end of the courtyard, and Troius sat with his back to it, presumably meditating, while Cohn dug papers out of a satchel and sorted through them. Cohn visited Sebastian with a smile, and Troius ignored her, at least initially. A quick glance showed Sebastian that, unlike with the Ventrue, Cock Robin was not willing to even remain visible with the two Tremere.

“What do you want?” Troius asked, looking up at her. His arm looked as viciously mangled as it had two nights previously, though Sascha appeared to be healing better. Sebastian wasn’t sure what accounted for the difference. 

“I’d like to speak with you, if you’re not too busy. ...Are you still in pain?” 

“I am.” 

“--Do the Camarilla have no doctors?” 

For some reason this question irritated Troius even more. “If you would satisfy your curiosity on Camarilla operations, speak to my companion.”

Sebastian blinked, feeling sympathy for him regardless of his tone. “I’m sorry about the forest.”

Troius did not appear to have expected an apology. “Don’t be. You fought well enough. The Garou inflict damage on us that is sometimes... harder to repair.” 

That made some sense to her, though Sascha’s speedier recovery wasn’t something she brought up. No need to look like she was rubbing it in. “What do you think about the Nosferatu?” 

Troius closed his eyes again, and looked as though he’d ignore the question, before supplying, “I’m glad they’re here. I won’t feel safe again until I’m back at the Chantry where I belong.” 

Cohn looked tempted to add something, but decided to keep his peace. Sebastian yet wondered privately why Cock Robin was even more skittish around these two, and inquired about the yearling. Neither of the Tremere recognized the horse, or had any interest in how it had come to be wandering freely. That they were both embroiled in personal projects was clear, and so Sebastian let them be, re-entering the mansion more troubled than before. 

She supposed it was _possible_ the horse escaped and that it was as simple as that, but now she thought back to it, there had been no reason for it. She didn’t know why the details bothered her. If Troius was unsettled by the rumors, perhaps Sebastian was spooking at shadows, as well. If vampires could live for centuries, and lived often by violence, how many of them felt the wind of the cannonball? Sebastian doubted many would qualify as totally healthy. 

She stopped to look out one of the windows. Brussels slept, but uneasily; she could feel something in the air that reminded her of the restless proletariat of France. A shadow moved, and she stared harder into the darkness, willing her eyesight to reveal ... 

The outer gate opening. 

“Sebastian.” Hardestadt was up and about, followed by Diana and the two elder Nosferatu - the Primogen Rose and the impressive Tiberius. Sebastian averted her eyes, only for a moment, and indicated the outside.

“There are - guests, at the gate.” She tried to keep the concern out of her voice, but it was obvious from the way Hardestadt looked at her that she had failed.

He opened the door to the mansion and stepped out, observing the carriage and its occupants as they disembarked with an expressionless face. He would have made a fine General of any war, in Sebastian’s opinion, and she lingered close to him, observing that the Nosferatu who shadowed him did not disappear, but rather showed themselves even more proudly as standing beside him, and offering their support.

She tried not to stare, but when she caught Tiberius’ eye, the fearsome Nosferatu winked at her. 

“The Sabbat.” Hardestadt supplied, leaning on the hazel walking stick he’d previously only kept under one arm. “Hello, Madam Regent Sha-Ennu.” 

Despite wanting to pay attention to the proceedings, Sebastian kept looking at the stick for a few moments longer. It was thin and unobtrusive, almost flimsy, even, and nothing like the cudgels carried by the _incroyables_ of post-revolutionary France, used for beating radicals (and only ‘suspected’ radicals) after the re-establishment of monarchical power. 

The contrast between the unassuming stick and one made of more exotic stuff, or more plainly designed as a weapon, so enraptured her that the Sabbat Regent was able to get quite close before she looked up, and when she did, she found herself at a loss to parse the individual’s nature, even with all her experience in the unusual so far.

The Regent was likely of Sascha Vykos’s clan, or possibly a Nosferatu, as her face was inhumanly smooth and oddly shaped, impossibly long and with the off-color eyes of a fox, perhaps, or some species of bird. Sebastian was again almost totally ignored by all present as the Regent indicated two smaller, wiry vampires to unload a few bags of earth. 

“We come to negotiate the return of Sascha Vykos.” The Regent was brusque, but not, in Sebastian’s opinion, rude. She did appear to be skipping the bulk of pleasantries, but there was no contempt in her voice or mien. 

“Certainly. Return here within five night-spans, with Anneke van Dijk, undead and healthy, as well as the Proserpina sarcophagus that was stolen by Napoleon’s kine and then liberated by your own - and information on the location of the lock that fits this key.” He held the bone-and-teeth rosary out for the Regent’s inspection.

She took it in spidery fingers, with the reverence of a holy object, and then looked back up at Hardestadt. “Quite a list. The sarcophagus is empty, you know.”

“Indeed. And if it wasn’t, when you acquired it, it is now.” 

Sha-Ennu looked puzzled. “Why do you want it, then?” 

Hardestadt gestured broadly, but vaguely, with the cane. “Does that matter? I have named my price for Sascha Vykos. Now it is yours to accept or decline.” 

The Regent didn’t need long to debate. “I accept.” She stepped close - very close - to Hardestadt, and Sebastian saw the Nosferatu tense up in momentary concern, though Hardestadt himself had the stillness of death. Sha-Ennu looped the chain around Hardestadt’s neck, and stepped away again to admire it. 

“You wear the _Dêað trûwa_ very well, Lord of the Camarilla. I will tell you what the key unlocks for the price agreed, but for free, I will tell you the purpose of the chain. The teeth are our fallen warriors, their ash beloved by us. And to wear it is to swear that you also will sacrifice all for the Cainite cause.” 

Hardestadt tucked the cane under his arm again, letting the chain fall loosely about his neck, “We may disagree on some important details, but the grand scheme is close enough. Until we meet again, Honorable Sha-Ennu.” 

Hardestadt’s ghouls wasted no time bringing the dirt to Sascha Vykos, and the Sabbat took their leave peacefully. The Ventrue watched them go unmoving, and then turned on his heel, gesturing to Sebastian to follow. With a backward glance at the retreating, willowy Regent, she complied, watching Hardestadt tuck the chain under his clothes, and wondered if there was some cultural Sabbat ceremonial protection imbued in it, or if he was just humoring Sha-Ennu because it wasn’t expensive to oppose her. 

“I hear you found one of my horses roaming.” Hardestadt broke several hallways worth of silence.

“Ah. Yes. It was no trouble.” Sebastian anticipated, and pre-emptively waved off any thanks.

“We’ll get to that. I’d like to know who you returned him to.” 

Sebastian described the guard, and, as she thought of it in hindsight, the lack of stableboy, which skimmed a mild breeze of concern over the waters of Hardestadt’s countenance. He retreated back into the meeting room and sat, resting his chin on his hands. He said nothing, and Sebastian didn’t ask, glancing at the other Nosferatu, who sat around the table as well. 

After a moment, Tiberius decided to inform her. “You were the last one to see him alive. We found his body about twenty minutes ago - he was supposed to be watching the gate.” That was evidently why Hardestadt had hastened out unbidden to meet the Sabbat. 

Sebastian, oddly, did not consider that they thought she might be a suspect. For one, they were far too cavalier about her closeness to Hardestadt, and for two, no one seemed to be negatively disposed to her, or disbelieving her story about returning the horse - and Cock Robin was surely a good enough character witness.

Hardestadt lapsed into brooding, as motionless under the marble arches as if he were dead - a perfect stillness that Sebastian found spellbinding. She stood patiently, her arms behind herself, near the door, not demanding an end to the silence with nerves, nor looking to anyone else to speak. It was a surprise to be addressed.

“What do you think happened?” 

“Err.” Sebastian stalled for a moment, but emboldened herself with thoughts of Cock Robin’s rumored intel, “I should suspect the writer of the threatening letter has managed to infiltrate through a gap in the Nosferatu defenses?”

Tiberius exchanged a look with Benjamin, who opened his hands palm-upward to display no investment either way in that theory. Certainly they weren’t insulted, but Tiberius clarified, “Impossible.” 

“More likely that one of the Nosferatu has been given a better offer and turned a blind eye,” Hardestadt observed, “And no one pays higher than I do.” So then, he had a high degree of confidence in the Nosferatu as spies and observers.

Sebastian opened her mouth, then closed it, worried. She thought of Sascha, several rooms away, who had fallen with gratitude upon the precious earth and entered a sleep as deep as any dreamed by a fallen soldier of Sebastian’s corps. Could _she_ have written the letter? 

“May I see the letter?” Sebastian asked, and Hardestadt passed it over to her. She skimmed it, initially unable to tell if the author was writing in a second language - but as she flicked through the pages, she became more convinced it was so. There were sentences that jarred, as _‘You know the cost of defiance?’_ , which parsed with a decidedly un-English emphasis to Sebastian’s ear. She worried her lower lip, but decided, “I can say it is unlikely Vykos wrote this. It sounds nothing like her, and --there are pages and pages of it.” 

“Sascha does tend to get to the point.” Hardestadt was almost fond.

“I would be very surprised if they were originally a modern English speaker.” Sebastian offered, scrutinizing the spidery handwriting, “But educated, yes. See, there is no ‘do’ lexical verb. Which ... doesn’t narrow it a great deal, but there are only a handful of languages that have no use for auxiliary or lexical ’do’. Afrikaans, Italian... Middle English?” She looked to Tiberius, “This could be an older individual who hasn’t adapted to a six hundred-or-more year linguistic shift.”

Benjamin Rose and Tiberius shared a look, this one longer than the last, and some unspoken suspicion that Sebastian could see - frustratingly, that she had no source for! She wanted to understand, the better to inform and guide. 

There was little more to do or say, however. The Elder Ventrue dismissed the Nosferatu, accepted Sebastian’s sparing and frustrated indications that she would continue to observe, and sent her on her way, doubtless accompanied by the invisible Cock Robin. Sebastian was growing more and more confident that the Nosferatu was assigned to her for her protection.

She spent the remainder of the night over Sascha’s exhausted form, and only when it became day did she risk sleeping alongside. Her half conscious mind was rife with worries and thoughts, of the Regent Sha-Ennu, of horses both metal and flesh, and of an army, faceless and cruel, waging war on the mansion’s few occupants. 

When she woke, she was no wiser; there was no subconscious revelation for what was to come, based on the data. Sebastian ate breakfast in the early evening, noting that Sascha still slept heavily, and calculated the time she had already spent before giving her shoulder a gentle shake. 

Sascha stirred, turned over, and mumbled something with no serious attempt to rejoin the waking world, so Sebastian let her continue to regain her strength, reasoning that she would get up when ready. The waiting wore on her, regarding the promised siege, and Sebastian recalled the hurry-up-and-wait paradox prior to deployment in the military. Every nerve was taut, focus was scattered. The animal brain demanded constant wariness.

Fortunately, Sascha revived within the hour as a better distraction for Sebastian’s mind. The Tzimisce sat up, stretched luxuriously - while displaying several impossible dislocations - then settled down and blinked at Sebastian. It was evident in the liquid flow of her limbs that the rest had done her good.

"Shall we see Hardestadt?" Sascha asked, taking Sebastian's hand in her own. 

“If you like.” Sebastian had soft palms, with no hint of a laborer's calloused fingers. The way Sascha held her hand was like an artisan lifting a block of quality wood. She remembered the _city of unified flesh_ , and the way Sascha molded her own skin and muscle like clay.

Sebastian filled her in on the contents of the letter as they made their way to the meeting room, and hesitated at the threshold when she realized the Ventrue - _all of them_ \- were engaged in a meeting. The Nosferatu were either absent or, more likely, extremely circumspect. Troius and Cohn were present, at the opposite end of the table. 

With her eye for irrelevant detail, Sebastian recognized the Ventrue kept to their original seats, including the pale haired Mx. Van Vermeer.

Sascha threaded in past her, giving the impression that she enjoyed the looks of consternation directed her way. Hardestadt set aside paperwork decisively and visited the full measure of his attention on the Tzimisce. "Are you recovered, Ms. Vykos?"

"I am, Praetor." Sascha returned, for once appearing solemn, rather than a mixture of challenging and impish. The change, while subtle, was overt for Sebastian, who had paid close attention to how Sascha had behaved when alone with Hardestadt. “Your hospitality is deeply appreciated.” 

In front of all these Ventrue, it might have been a dig at treating a prisoner too well, but it didn’t sound like one. Especially when she contrasted it with the next thing out of Sascha’s mouth. 

“Who has threatened you, then? Are all assembled to be accused?” 

The Ventrue didn’t exactly clamor, but at least half a dozen sets of eyes narrowed, and a murmur cut through the group as each individual Ventrue leaned to their most sympathetic associate to share an undercurrent of commentary.

Hardestadt looked to be about to try to restore order - slowly enough to give time for the emotion to recede on its own, to play out - when the door opened again. Yet another Nosferatu Sebastian did not recognize entered, accompanied by Tiberius and appearing respectfully deferential to him. This new one was unlike anything Sebastian had seen yet, and difficult for her to describe; she had the sense that the Nosferatu rarely, if ever, had clan members who were not terrifying to behold. 

“My Childe, Bertram, has been watching the edge of the forest. Tell the Praetor what you told me, Childe.” 

Bertram glanced at the assembled and then dropped to one knee in front of Hardestadt, “There were lanterns and a few campfires. I got very close, I could make out a dozen Gargoyles. Winged, mostly. They’re pointed right at us, they could be here in under an hour.” 

This time there was no clamor, greater or small, only the ashen faces of individuals who looked condemned. Troius at the end of the table - and Hardestadt, his northern counterpart - were the only two not visibly stricken by the news.

“It’s not a concern.” Troius got up, nudging Cohn gently beside him, “Thaumaturgy accounts for barriers against these creatures - a dozen, a hundred Gargoyles. What does it matter? If the letter is from a Tremere _antitribu_ , they have miscalculated. Perhaps Honorable Cohn and myself can get to work fortifying your haven immediately against them.” 

“How long will it take?” Hardestadt asked. 

“I could have it done within ten minutes alone, if not for this wound. Give us twenty, I can guide Cohn, and, also, your word that we have complete privacy. I don’t like an audience.” 

Hardestadt considered it, while Sascha murmured in Sebastian’s ear, “The Tremere are terrified of the obsolescence that understanding their rituals would bring. They guard each tiny secret as if it were key to their very survival. And, in truth, if they were let out from under the protection of the Camarilla, they would be torn apart like a hunting fox against the Sabbat hounds.” 

Sebastian shivered, but was grateful of the education, giving Sascha’s hand a squeeze. 

“Do it.” Hardestadt directed. 

“I protest.” Van Vermeer spoke up, somewhat unexpectedly, “How can we be sure this was not some gambit of the Tremere themselves? Or a plot to trap us here? Do Gargoyles serve the _antitribu?_ ” 

Troius scowled unseen to the Dutch Ventrue but very visibly to Sebastian, and spoke without turning to face them. “If you would prefer to be ripped apart by them, you can always leave. The barrier will be impassible only to Gargoyles. But I assure you we have already explored the full potential of this particular path - we no longer use them for any purpose, and the only Gargoyles remaining are those that have created their own clanmates outside of the Pyramid.” 

“Then why not destroy them?” Van Vermeer argued, reasonably enough, Sebastian thought, “Don’t the Tremere have a certain method?” 

Troius did turn, then. “I don’t like your tone, Mx. Vermeer.”

“Ah,” Cohn inserted himself between them, “Not to worry. I promise you this is not some elaborate - it would be far too confusing and difficult and prone to failure if it were a plot, Mx. van Vermeer, respectable company, the Tremere of my House will take care of this difficulty immediately, and we will simply wait them out until sunlight, where they must leave, or face destruction. Bloodless, you see? No risk to us.” 

“I do see. Thank you.” Van Vermeer lapsed back, looking disappointed. 

“Hurry.” Hardestadt said to Troius, without a word of further diplomacy or any indication he thought his fellow Ventrue had been offering unsubstantiated suggestions of treachery. The two Tremere left the room somewhat more surly than they had been, but with the haste required of them, and Sascha took one of their chairs for herself, indicating Sebastian should take the other, and lifting one leg to the table. The audacity gave her as much delight as it gave the Ventrue mild discomfort. Tiberius stood nearer the Ventrue’s side of the table, while the named ‘Bertram’ was now nearer the door he’d entered. 

“Who could have rallied Gargoyles against us during the Gerousia? The Tremere were here randomly. It’s only good fortune that they can help us keep out the Gargoyles.” Courtland did not look directly at Hardestadt, but he looked somewhat boldly in that general direction. It was not _against us_ , it was against _Hardestadt._

“Who indeed.” Sascha took pleasure in inviting herself into the conversation. “Someone here, don’t you think?” 

No one wanted to speak and thereby draw attention to themselves. Hardestadt did lean on the table momentarily, watching Sascha with that golden gaze that Sebastian found gorgeous. 

“Sascha, if you would please stop sowing discord among this venerable company, I would appreciate it. No one here is under suspicion. This is a discussion.” 

“The Ventrue,” Sascha said to Sebastian, “Do so love to _discuss._ ”

Sebastian flushed, nodding in answer, not fearful of Hardestadt’s reply but embarrassed, just the same. “What would you do?” 

“Accuse.” Sascha looked around the room, careless, “Randomly at first, if I truly had no suspects.” 

“I have a suspect. They aren’t here, because they are one of my enemies.” Hardestadt was all patience. “Be respectful, Ms. Vykos, as you are a guest, and similarly not accused of anything you haven’t done.” 

Sascha looked for a moment as if she might ask to stand ‘not accused’ of the things she had done, but decided against it, lapsing passively back against the chair again. The Ventrue picked up an uneasy thread of conversation, but even Sebastian could see they had no evidence - it was all conjecture. That seemed to bother Bertram, too, who was saying and doing nothing but who was paying an almost white-hot attention to the gathering.

“Please go check on Troius. You’re the only one who he likely won’t mind witnessing the tail end of his ritual.” Hardestadt said, looking directly at Sebastian. “Be quick.” 

Sebastian scooted up out of the chair and exited, passing by Bertram as she went. Even if it was potentially dangerous - if creatures like the Kindred could be worried about a dozen Gargoyles - it felt good to be able to do anything for Hardestadt.


End file.
